warnings: 18+ nudity/bathing (no smut) , touching, suggestive?, reader bathes bucky, reader finds bucky injured, scares of death, blood and wounds (non graphic) angst, food, fluff at the end, βSoldatβ used a few times, hydra, set kinda old timey, open ending?
word count: 4.0k
a/n: first fic since my new job! Haiii ;) Iβm very open to adding on to this but let me know what yβall think! I couldnβt stop thinking of @superbassbuck when writing this idk why I feel like I say that a lot lol but anyways!
summary: You live alone in a secluded woodland cottage, your life is peaceful, shaped by nature and routine. Until one autumn morning brings an unexpected intrusion when a wounded stranger appears at the rivers edge.
The cottage was a secret between you and the forest. It sat nestled deep within the pines and towering oaks, a small timber-framed thing with a moss covered roof that looked more like a grassy hill then a house.
But, it was your world. Your days were measured not by the ticking of a clock, but by the ripening of berries, the fetching of water pails, and the quiet footfalls of the animals who considered you a friendly neighbor.
It was a life woven from solitude and silence. Mornings began with the scent of dew-damp earth and the soft scratch of a quill and ink on paper as you sketched the cardinals that flitted to your windowsill.Β
Afternoons though were for your work: tending to the herb garden, foraging for mushrooms, and keeping the woodpile stocked against the coming chilly wind.Β
Evenings were for resting, for reading your fatherβs worn books by dancing firelight, and for the gentle company with the wild things. The bunnies, with their twitching noses and cotton tails, would gather at your feet as you skipped through the greens. The deer, shy and majestic, would approach the edge of the wooded clearing, their dark doe eyes watching with a profound, unspoken trust. You were their keeper, their quiet guardian.
This morning was no different. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of pine needles and the promise of a clear autumn day. You knelt by the riverbank, the icy water swirling around your wrists as you washed the sleep from your skin. The river was your lifeline, its constant currentβ a soothing balm. You were lost in the simple, meditative act, watching a woodpecker tap at an oak, when a flash of unnatural color caught your eye.
Further downstream, tangled in the leaves, lay a shape that did not belong. It was too dark, too rigid to be a fallen log. Your heart gave a sharp, anxious flutter. A poacher or hunterβs prey? A fallen hiker or traveler?
You rose slowly, hands dripping, and moved toward the shape with a caution born of living alone for years now. As you drew closer, the shape resolved into a man. He was face down in the banks mud, half his body limp in the water, the current tugging at him with a harsh jostling motion. He was clad in some sort of dark, form-fitting leather, scuffed in places, even torn in others. An empty holster hung from his hip and thigh, his boots were tied to his shins, heavy, military-grade things, one was missing its lace. His hair, a thick, matted mane of brown, was fanned out in the water like sodden seaweed.
A cold dread, sharper than the river cold, seized you. You stepped in, the current pulling at your dress skirt, and knelt beside him. His skin was frighteningly pale, almost translucent in the morning light, and a dark, ugly gash marred from his temple to his cheek bone. But the most alarming thing was the unnatural stillness of him. He wasnβt breathing. Or was he? You pressed two small, trembling fingers to the side of his neck, searching for a pulse. There it was. A faint, thready beat beneath his skin, a fragile, stubborn spark of life.
"H-hello?" You whispered, voice sounding impossibly loud in the quiet of the forest. "Can you hear me?"
No response. His eyes were closed, lips tinged with blue. He was bleeding, he was freezing, and he was lost.
Fear gave way to a fierce, protective instinct. You couldn't leave him here. Taking a deep breath, you hooked your arms under his shoulders. He was heavier than you could have ever imagined, a dead weight of muscle and bone. Grunting with effort, you dragged him from the river's greedy grasp, his boots leaving deep burrows in the soft mud of the bank.
Β You propped him against a large, moss-covered rock, away from the water, and knelt to examine him more closely. The gash on his head was the most pressing, but his skin was burning up. A growing infection, then. A fever.
You gently brushed a wet lock of hair from his forehead. His skin was turning shockingly hot beneath your cool fingertips.
At the contact, his eyes flew open.
They were the color of a stormy sea, wide with a primal, animal terror. He flinched violently, a choked gasp escaping his lips. His body coiled in on itself, muscles tensing as if to spring, but his injuries betrayed him. He slumped back against the rock with a pained groan, his gaze darting around wildly, searching for a threat, an escape.
"Shhh," You soothed, pulling your hands back to show him you meant no harm. You held them up, palms empty, open. "It's alright. You're safe. I'm not going to hurt you."
His wild eyes fixed on you at your voice, distrust and confusion warring in their depths. He tried to push himself up again, his hand clawing for the empty holster at his hip. He found nothing. A flicker of panic, deeper this time, crossed his face.
"You're hurt," you said, voice soft and even, a tone you used for spooked does. "You were in the river. You need my help. My cottage is just through those trees. Theres fire. It's warm. I can help you."
You pointed, and his gaze followed your finger to the faint outline of your home. He looked back at you, expression unreadable. He was a predator, assessing, calculating. But he was also wounded, raw. The fight was slowly draining from him, replaced by a bone-deep exhaustion and hurt.
"Come," you said, rising slowly and extending a slow hand. "Let me help you."
For a long moment, he just stared at the gentle gesture, as if it were some alien object. Then, with a shuddering sigh, he reached out. His fingers, calloused and scarred, wrapped around yours. His grip was firm, almost crushing, but you didn't pull away. Together, you made the slow, agonizing journey to the cottage, his arm heavy across your shoulders.
Once inside, you got him settled onto the old, worn armchair by the heat, the one your father used to read in. The leather of his suit creaked and rubbed as he sank into the cushions. He looked enormous and out of place amidst the lacey curtains and the scent of dried lavender from the pick this morning.
"I'm going to get you clean, now" you explained, moving to the small washroom attached to the main living area. You began lighting an oil lamp in there, casting a warm glow on the simple tin tub and the hand-pumped faucet. You turned the knob, making the pipes groan and squeal before a stream of cold water began to fill the basin. "There's a shower in here. You just turn this knob," you looked over your shoulder, demonstrating, "to get hot water. It might take a moment to get warm since itβs by fire. I'll find you some clean clothes and make you something to eat. We'll clean your wounds after."
He watched your every move, his gaze intense, missing nothing. You gestured to the washroom. "Go on. Get out of those wet things. There's a bar of soap on the ledge there."
He stood, a bit unsteadily, and waddled into the small room. He closed the door behind him and you let out a breath you hadn't realized you were holding.Β
Your heart was still hammering against your ribs. Who was he? An army soldier, clearly. A fugitive? The empty holster screamed danger, but the vulnerability in his eyes had screamed to you for help.
You busied herself as he washed off, pulling out your father's old clothes from a cedar chest. They would be too small for the man's broad shoulders, but they would have to do. Better than your own sundresses and silk nighties.Β
You laid a soft, red, flannel shirt and a pair of sturdy canvas pants on the bed. Then went straight to the kitchen, putting a cast-iron skillet on the stove, pouring some olive oil inside and cracking a few eggs into it, slicing thick pieces of the bread you baked yesterday. The familiar, grounding ritual of cooking helped to settle your nerves.
You had just dropped in the eggs and bread with a fragrant herb oil when a sound from the bathroom made you pause. It was a soft, frustrated thud. Then, silence.Β
You waited.Β
Another moment passed. Concern began to prickle at you. Had he fallen? Fainted?
You approached the bathroom door, knocking lightly before calling out softly. "Everything alright in there?"Β
No answer. You pressed your ear to the wood. Nothing but the dripping of the faucet. "Hello? Are you okay?"
Slowly, the door creaked open.
He stood there, framed in the doorway. Steam billowed out around him, smelling of soap and wet metal. He was completely, utterly nude. Water droplets tracked paths down his broad chest and over the hard planes of his stomach down his thick thighs. The sight of him was breathtaking and deeply shocking. His body was a roadmap of violenceβa lacework of pale, silvery scars crisscrossing his torso and up his arms, a brutal scar high on his ribs, the puckered skin of old pink bullet wounds.Β
Your breath hitched, cheeks flooding with a scorching heat. Your eyes flew from where they were looking down back up to his face, which was a mask of pure, confusion.Β
He was holding the bar of soap in his flesh hand, looking utterly baffled by the knobs of the shower, the concept of the water, of the entire process. He looked like a giant, frightened cub, lost in a world of simple mechanics and normalcy. He made a small, frustrated gesture with his free handβthe metal one you couldnβt stop glancing at, a universal sign for βI don't understandβ.
"Oh," you breathed out, voice barely a whisper. "Oh, the... the knobs. Yes. Sorry, I, um... I didn't explain it well, did I?β
You were aware of his nudity, of course, the sheer physical presence of him. But his confusion was so genuine, so innocent, that it cut through the awkwardness you felt flushing within you. He wasn't trying to be shocking; he was simply, earnestly, lost.
Pulling yourself together, you stepped into the steam-filled room heading for the basin immediately. "Here," your voice was steadier now.Β
You reached past him, your arm brushing against his, a jolt of warmth shooting through you at the contact. You turned the knob, and the water hissed to life again, raining down from the shower head. "You see? This makes the water come from above. And this one," you turned the other knob, "makes it warm. You just need to find the right balance."
He watched her hands, his gaze flicking between the knobs and her face. He seemed to understand. Kinda. He nodded, a short, sharp jerk of his head.
"Right," you felt your blush deepen remembering the little to no space between you two and the lack of clothing. "I'll... I'll just get you a towel."
You crouch down under the sink and grabbed a large, fluffy towel from the shelf and set it on the closed lid of the toilet. When you turned back, he was still standing there, looking at the spray of water as if it were a miracle. He hadn't moved. He was waiting for you to leave, but he also seemed hesitant to be alone with the strange, noisy contraption.
An idea, wild and reckless, bloomed in your mind. "Do you... need help?"Β
His stormy eyes locked on yours. There was no lewdness in them, no expectation. Only a quiet, desperate need for guidance. He gave another, almost imperceptible nod.
The air in the small room grew thick, heavy with steam and unspoken tension. You were very new and unknowing to these feelings.Β
You took the soap from his hand, fingers gently ghosting over his. "Okay, let's get you clean."
He slowly stepped in the tub and turned to the wall so his backside was facing you. So, you started with his back, working the soap into a deep rich lather. His skin was hot and slick under your palms. With every circled motion you traced the lines of his scars, each one a story you couldn't read, a testament to a life of pain and abuse.Β
He stood perfectly still, head bowed, a low rumble vibrating in his chest that might have been a sigh or a groan. You washed his shoulders, his arms, the powerful muscles of his chest, careful to avoid the gash on his side. He was as tense as a drawn bowstring, but he let you.
When he moved around so his front faced you, you kept your eyes on his face, a hard, effort. You soaped up his chest, your hands sliding over the hard planes, yet avoiding his eyes. He was watching you, his expression unreadable. You could feel the heat radiating from him, could smell the clean scent of the soap mingling with the unique, masculine scent of his wet skin.
You knelt to the floor to wash his legs best. His thighs were like oak trunks, his calves corded and rigid. You scrubbed and scrubbed going up, up, up till you got to his intimate area. While rinsing the suds away with a pail you saw his face contort at the sensitivity there. You quickly finished to keep him as comfortable as you could, while letting him know he was safe with you and you werenβt trying anything at him.Β
You whispered a quick sorry and filled the pail with water once more flushing away all the grime and blood, revealing the truth of him. He was a weapon, honed and used. But here, in your tiny washroom, he was just a man who didn't know how to work a shower.
When you were finally all done, you rose to your feet, knees aching from the tile. He closed his eyes, a look of profound relief on his face. For the first time since you found him, the tension seemed to drain from his shoulders.
You turned off the water, and the sudden silence was deafening. You handed him the towel. He took it, his movements still stiff and uncertain. He patted himself dry with a strange, methodical awkwardness. You watched for a moment, then, realizing you were staring, you backed out of the room. "I'll... I'll leave the clothes on the bed for you," you stammered, and fled.
By the time he emerged from the bedroom, dressed in your father's old clothes, the awkwardness had receded slightly. The flannel shirt was strained across his chest, the sleeves were an inch too short, and the fabric of the pants were tight in the thighs, but he was warm and covered. His long, damp hair was slicked back, revealing the cuts and lines of his face. The bruise on his temple was blooming a violent purple. You saw now how handsome he actually was,
You set a place for him at the small wooden table in the kitchen. The smell of fried eggs and herbs filled the cottage. He stood in the doorway, gaze sweeping the room, before settling on the plate of food. A flicker of somethingβhunger, disbeliefβcrossed his features.
"Sit," you said gently, gesturing to the chair. "Eat. You must be starvinβ."
He sat slowly, his movements careful to not break the small wicker chairs. He looked at the gleaming silver fork, then at the plate, as if trying to remember its function. Then, he picked up the bread with his fingers, tore off a piece, and used it to scoop up the eggs, taking a bite.
It wasn't eating; it was a consumption born of absolute starvation. He devoured the first plate in under a minute, his eyes never leaving the food. You wordlessly took the plate and piled it high again with eggs, placing another slice of bread, buttered this timeβbeside it.Β
He demolished that one, too, eating with a focused, almost animalistic intensity. You gave him a third and final plate, and he finished that as well, slower this time, a sliver of humanity returning to his movements. He wiped the plate clean with the last piece of bread, then sat back, looking at his empty hands then to you.
You had prepared earlier a basin of warm water, clean tea cloths, and a jar of your special salveβa concoction of honey, milk, and beeswax that your mother had taught you to make. "Alright, letβs look at your head, okay?β
You led him to the couch, the softest place in the cottage, with the bucket and medicine in one hand, your other cradling his. He sat stiffly, posture rigid and cold.Β
You plopped down beside him, close enough to work but careful not to crowd or worry him. You dipped a corner of the cloth in the water and gently began to clean the leaking gash on his temple. He flinched at the first touch, his hand coming up reflexively holding her wrist then settling to your waist, but he let you continue.
"Hold still," you murmured, your touch light and sure. "It's a nasty cut. You must have hit a rock when you fainted."
He didn't respond, just watched your hands with that same intense focus. As you worked, you could feel the raw power holding back in his stillness. The couch creaked under his weight as he shifted.
"What's your name?" You questioned softly, dabbing at the wound again.
He was silent for so long you thought he didnβt hear you. Then, a low, gravelly voice, rusty from disuse, spoke. "Soldat."
The word hung in the air. Soldier. His Russian accent thick. Not a name. A designation.
"Soldat," you repeated. "Is that what you are? Or who you are?"
He looked in your eyes, his own filled with an emptiness. "I don't... remember."
The confession was quiet, heavy with a despair so deep it seemed to suck all the air from the room. He didn't know his name. He didn't know who he was. He was just a soldier, an empty vessel.
Your heart ached for him. "Alright, Soldat," you finished cleaning the wound and began to apply the medicine with the tip of your finger. His skin was warming up under your touch. "No more questions for now. Let's just get you patched up."
You continued to work in silence, cleaning the smaller cuts and scrapes on his arms and hands. His body was a testament to a life of combat, but your touch was healing, soothing. You finished with a clean wrapβa makeshift bandage on his head.
"There," you pulled back looking at your work. "All done. You should rest."
He looked at you, his gaze searching your face for the rest of it. He was looking for a βyou can rest, ifββ or a βafter you do thisβ.Β
But he found nothing else. He looked exhausted, the adrenaline and the warmth, the food, finally catching up to him all at once. The fear in his eyes had receded, replaced by a bone-deep weariness and a flicker of... something else. Gratitude?
He didn't go to the bed you had offered. Instead, his gaze drifted to the empty space beside you on the couch. He looked back up at you, a silent question in his eyes.
"Go on, then," you smiled softly, patting the cushion.
He shifted, sinking into the worn fabric. The couch groaned in protest. He was still tense, a coiled hard spring. You reached for a thick wool quilt from the back of the couch and draped it over his legs and your own. The simple act seemed to be the final straw. A shudder ran through him, and the tension began to bleed away.
He leaned his head back against the cushions, his eyes closing. He looked so young like this, the harsh lines of his face softened in the flickering firelight. The bandage on his head was stark white against his skin. He was clean, fed, and tended to. Safe.
He wasn't a soldier or a weapon. He was a boy who didn't know his name and had almost died, alone in a freezing river. A wave of fierce tenderness washed over you. He was a stray, just like the bunnies and the deer, only more broken, more lost.
He started to drift, his breathing evening out into the slow, deep rhythm of sleep. But before he fell completely, he moved. His head, heavy with exhaustion, lolled sideways and came to rest in your lap. He didn't stir, just settled there with a soft sigh, as if he had finally found the one place he was meant to be.
You froze, breath catching in your throat. His hair, still damp, spilled across your thighs. You could feel the warmth of his cheek through the fabric of the blanket and your skirt. He was so trusting in his sleep, this giant, dangerous man.Β
Your hand hovered over his head, trembling slightly. Then, slowly, carefully, you let it settle on his thick, dark hair. It was clean now, and so soft, smelling of your own rosemary soap you used.
You began to gently run your fingers through it, untangling the last of the snags and tangles. The rhythm was soothing, hypnotic. His breathing deepened. You found a loose strand and began to braid, fingers moving with a practiced ease you had learned from braiding your own hair, from weaving the vines that grew by the river, and the fabric as you sewed.Β
You wove another strand, and another, a small, intricate plait forming against his temple. The act was intimate, ancient. A ritual of care, of claiming peace.
You braided his hair as he slept, the fire crackling in the chimney, the forest holding its breath outside. He was a mystery, a danger, a ghost from a world you had left far behind to resign deep in the forest instead.Β
But for now, in the quiet of your cottage, with his head in your lap and the scent of clean soap in the air, he was just a man who needed a safe place to sleep. And for now you could give him just that.
-end
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summary. when bucky sees you babysitting walkerβs kid, something stirs inside him.
word count. 5.9k
warnings. smut, 18+, mdni, unprotected pnv, breeding kink, mentions of lactation kink, no use of y/n. reader likes kids and is good with them (work with me)
notes. this has been unfinished for weeks now. lowkey hate the smut towards the end, but it was all i could come up with π im sorry i just had to get smth out before i go on this break. (if there are any mistakes, look the other way please)
lately sundays have been slow, tangled up in sheets with buckyβs metal arm slung heavy over your waist and his breath soft against the back of your neck.
but today, youβre already up, pouring coffee that smells too strong because youβre trying to wake yourself properly. buckyβs still in bed, or at least he was when you slipped out twenty minutes ago, eyes flickering open long enough to mumble βfive more minutes, babyβ before burying his face back in the pillow.
the common area is not so surprisingly louder than usual. john walkerβs pacing near the big windows, with phone pressed to his ear, looking a lot like heβs trying not to yell.
you can catch fragments. something about a last-minute briefing, no one being available, something about βi know itβs short notice, butββ heβs cut off already.
his kid, a tiny thing with walkerβs blond hair but none of his permanent scowl, is sitting cross-legged on the rug with a half-finished juice box.
you already know what this is about. leaning against the doorway, you watch with your mug cradled in both hands.
most of the team is scattered around. by most, you mean yelena and ava, because bob and alexei are nowhere to be found. no oneβs volunteering. no one even looks like theyβre considering it.
walker hangs up, βlook, i know nobody wants to play babysitter, but iβve got no one else. two hours, maybe three tops. heβs not a problem, he justβ¦ sits. colors. eats snacks. thatβs it.β
thatβs one way to describe his kid. okay.
but heβs only met with silence. the kind that is uncomfortable.
you set your mug down on the side table without really thinking about it. βiβll watch him.β
walker blinks at you like he didnβt expect the words to come from anyone, let alone you. βyou sure?β
βyeah.β youre already walking over. βi like kids. heβs cute. weβll be fine.β
yelena snorts from the couch. βyouβre too nice. itβs disgusting.β
you flash her a grin. βsomeoneβs gotta be.β
walker hesitates another second. itβs long enough that you see the flicker of real gratitude under the usual guarded expression. βokay. thanks. seriously. i owe you.β he crouches in front of the little boy, voice dropping softer than youβve ever heard it. βhey, buddy. youβre gonna hang with her for a little while, alright? be good. no climbing the shelves again.β
the kidβ ben, you remember now βnods solemnly, clutching a blue crayon to his chest. walker ruffles his hair and gives you one more quick βcall me if anythingββ before heβs gone.
and then itβs just you and ben.
you drop to the floor beside him, βso. what are we working on today?β
he pushes a battered box of crayons toward you without a word. the paper in front of him is already covered in aggressive scribbles, mostly blue and red, overlapping so hard the wax is cracking. you pick up a green one and start adding little loops around the edges.
βthatβs a dragon,β he is pointing put.
βoh yeah? fierce looking guy.β
βhe eats bad people.β
you laugh under your breath. βwe definitely need more of those around here.β
across the room, buckyβs finally wandered in. heβs still in yesterdayβs black t-shirt and sweatpants, now with a coffee in his hand.
but his eyes though, theyβre watching you.
when you catch him staring, your stomach does the familiar flip. he doesnβt smile, not really, but the corner of his mouth lifts just enough that you know heβs pleased about something. probably you. probably this whole scene.
you go back to coloring, adding tiny scales to the dragonβs tail while ben narrates in that blunt, serious way only four-year-olds manage. βheβs got fire. and wings. and heβs really big. bigger than you.β
βbigger than me?β you gasp, like youβre offended. βthatβs rude.β
βyouβre not that big.β reminding you little kids are terrible, they just cannot lie.
buckyβs moved closer now, until heβs standing just behind the couch. heβs not trying to hide that heβs watching. you can feel the way his gaze lingers on your hands moving over the paper, on the way you tilt your head when ben talks, on how you keep your voice patient even when the kid starts pressing too hard and rips the page.
something shifts in buckyβs chest while he stands there. itβs just a slow, warm ache that settles behind his ribs. you lookβ¦ soft. natural. the way you laugh when ben shoves a broken yellow crayon into your palm and says βfix it,β the way you smooth the paper down without making a big deal out of the tear.
he canβt stop picturing you like this, but rounder, softer in different places, carrying something thatβs his. yours. both of you. the thought hits him, makes his throat tighten. he justβ¦ wants. badly.
when you feel him still looking at you, you glance up to see that he is already moving, setting his mug down, lowering himself to the floor beside you with that careful grace he still has even when heβs pretending to be casual. his knee bumps yours as he settles. you think itβs on purpose, you know it is.
ben looks over, eyes narrowing like heβs sizing bucky up. then he digs through the crayon box, pulls out a dark red one, holding it out. βcolor, buck buck.β
βbuck buck?β
βuh-huh,β a non-committal sound from ben is all bucky gets.
you bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing out loud. bucky takes the crayon very carefully like it might break in his hand. βalright, kid. show me where.β
ben points at an empty corner. βhere. make him a sword.β
bucky starts drawing. honestly, heβs terrible at it. the sword looks more like a lumpy baseball bat, but ben nods like itβs perfect.
youβre grinning, βyouβre really committing to the sword thing, huh?β
βhad to.β buckyβs voice is still rough from sleep. βcanβt leave the dragon defenseless.β
ben nods seriously. βuh-huh. dragons need swords.β
you laugh again, and bucky feels it in his chest like a hand closing around his heart.
god, he wants to kiss you. right here, right now, with crayons scattered everywhere and a four-year-old narrating dragon battles. he wants to lean over, catch your mouth, taste the coffee still on your tongue.
he doesnβt, though. he just keeps coloring, letting his knee press a little firmer against yours.
βyouβre good with him,β he says after a minute, quiet enough that itβs just for you.
you shrug, adding purple spikes to the dragonβs back. βheβs easy. just wants someone to listen.β
bucky hums. βstill. youβreβ¦ natural at it.β
you glance at him, searching his face. thereβs something there. something thatβs warm and unguarded and it makes your cheeks heat. you donβt know what heβs hinting at, but you canβt help but smile, βyou getting soft?β
βyes.β he says it so simply it almost doesnβt register. then he smirks, βor maybe i just like watching you.β
you open your mouth to say something smart, something to deflect, but ben chooses that moment to crawl over, shoving himself right between the two of you. he plants both hands on your thigh like heβs staking territory.
βmine,β he declares, glaring at bucky.
buckyβs eyebrows shoot up. βhey now. i was here first.β
βno. sheβs mine.β ben scoots closer, practically in your lap now.
your arms surround him automatically. βoh boy. guess iβve been claimed.β
bucky juts his lower lip forward in the worldβs worst fake pout, βdamn. kicked to the curb by a four-year-old.β
βheβs ruthless,β you press a kiss to the top of benβs head.
you shift to reach for another crayon and your hip bumps buckyβs and he has to clench his jaw so he doesnβt groan. you smell like the lavender shampoo he loves so much and something sweeter underneath, something thatβs just you.
suddenly, whatever family friendly thoughts he head vanished.
now all he wants to do is bury his face in your neck, wants to bite down until you gasp, wants to press you into the rug and fuck you so deep you forget how to breathe anything but his name.
but ben is here, chattering about how a blue dragon can beat a green one, and youβre nodding along, encouraging him like itβs the most important battle in the world.
buckyβs chest aches with how much he likes watching you do this. likes the idea of you doing it forever. likes the idea of coming home to thisβ you, soft and round with his baby, smiling at him like he hung the damn moon instead of just being the broken soldier who somehow ended up with you.
he watches ben curl up into you and the way your fingers card through benβs hair, the way the little boy melts against you, eyelids already drooping.
bucky canβt look away.
heβs thinking about mornings like this. you sleepy and soft, hair in your face, one tiny hand curled in yours. his hand on your soft belly. the weight of it. the warmth.
he tries to focus on the terrible dragon drawing in front of him. he canβt.
ben yawns, and slumps heavier against your side. his head lolls onto your shoulder, crayon still clutched in one fist.
βthink heβs done for,β you murmur.
bucky nods. βlooks like it.β
you keep rocking him gently, almost without realizing. buckyβs eyes trace the curve of your neck, the way your shirt slips off one shoulder. heβs quiet for a long time, just breathing the same air as you, feeling the heat of your body next to his. committing each of this into memory.
he presses his lips to your hair, and wonders how long he can wait until john walker comes to pick up his son.
walker comes back sooner than expected. when he sees ben passed out against you, his whole face softens in a way youβve never seen before. βdamn. youβre a miracle worker.β
βhe did most of the work,β you smile. βjust tired himself out.β
walker crouches to gather ben carefully into his arms. the boy stirs, mumbles something incoherent, then settles again, face smushed against his dadβs shoulder. βthanks again. really.β
βanytime.β
he leaves as quietly as he came.
the room feels suddenly empty.
bucky pushes himself up first, offering you both of his hands. you et him pull you to your feet. he steps in, close enough that you feel the warmth rolling off him, close enough that your chest brushes his.
looking up, you see that his eyes are dark, the blue almost gone. heβs breathing a little harder than he should be.
thatβs when you feel it. the unmistakable outline of him pressing against your lower belly.
your mouth parts on a soft exhale. βbuckyβ¦β
he just presses his forehead to yours, βbeen watching you all afternoon. couldnβt stop thinkingβ¦β he trails off like he needs a moment to collect himself, βyouβre so good.β
your heart slams against your ribs. you donβt need to feel it know that his is doing the same. yet you slide your hands up his chest, feel the rapid thud under your palms.
his hands are already moving before you can say anything else, sliding down to your hips, fingers digging in just enough that it sends a spark straight through you.
buckyβs breath comes out rough against your temple, like heβs been holding it in all afternoon. βneed you,β his words are muffled into your hair. βright now. cβmon.β
you donβt argue. wouldnβt even if you could think straight, which you canβt actually, not with him this close and that hard length pressing against you, making everything feel urgent and hot.
your fingers curl into his shirt, tugging once, and he takes it as the yes it is.
he walks you out of the common room, one hand firm on your lower back, guiding you, eager to get to your room soon enough .
the hallway blurs a little and all you really notice is the way his metal thumb traces circles on your skin where your shirtβs ridden up, cool and steady against the heat building under your ribs.
by the time you make it to your room, the doorβs barely clicked shut before heβs on you. bucky crowds you against it, mouth finding yours in a kiss thatβs more teeth and tongue than anything gentle, like heβs been starving for this.
his hands are everywhere at once. theyβre sliding under your shirt, palms flat and warm against your sides, then higher, thumbs brushing the underside of your bra.
you gasp into his mouth, arching up without meaning to, and when he groans back, the sound vibrates through you.
he breaks away just long enough to pull your shirt over your head, tossing it somewhere behind him without looking.
his eyes rake over you, lingering on the swell of your breasts in that plain cotton bra you threw on this morning, the one with the little frayed strap that always slips.
βgod, you looked so good out there,β he leans in, lips brushing your collarbone, then lower, open-mouthed kisses trailing down your chest. βwith ben. the way you were with himβsmiling, patient. fuck, it did something to me. made me think aboutβ¦β
he trails off, mouth closing over the curve of your breast through the fabric, sucking lightly, and you feel the wet heat of it soak through.
your head falls back against the door with a thud, hands threading into his hair, pulling him closer because itβs not enough, not at all.
but that unfinished sentence hangs there, tugging at the edges of your mind even as pleasure coils tight in your belly.
think about what?
but right now all you can focus on is the way his stubble scrapes your skin, the way his breath fans hot over you as he switches to the other side, nipping gently at the edge of the cup.
βthink about what?β you manage to get out, voice breathy and uneven, fingers tightening in his hair as he presses a kiss right between your breasts, nose nudging the fabric aside just enough to expose more skin.
bucky pauses to lift his head to look at you, eyes hooded and lips shiny from where theyβve been on you.
thereβs a knowing smirk there, like heβs got a secret heβs not ready to spill yet. βyou know what,β he says, simple as that, before his mouth is back on you, kissing down your stomach now, hands working at the button of your jeans with a kind of focused urgency that makes your knees weak.
you donβt know, not really. or at least, not exactly. you think itβs about seeing you soft like that, domestic, the way he sometimes gets when youβre curled up together after a long day, all easy affection and quiet touches.
maybe itβs that side of you that turns him on, the one thatβs not fighting or training but justβ¦ being. the gentle side.
his hands slide your jeans down your hips, taking your underwear with them in one go, and you step out of them awkwardly, kicking them aside as he straightens up, pressing his body flush against yours again.
the roughness of his jeans against your bare skin makes you shiver, makes everything feel sharper.
he kisses you again, slower this time, but no less intense, tongue sliding against yours in a way that pulls a whine from your throat.
his metal hand cups your jaw, tilting your head just how he wants it, while the other slides between your thighs, fingers brushing where youβre already wet and aching. βso ready,β he murmurs against your lips, not pulling back far enough to really speak, just breathing the words into you. βbeen thinking about this since i saw you on the floor. couldnβt stop.β
thinking about this?
you moan softly as his fingers tease, circling but not quite pressing in, and itβs torture, the kind that makes your hips buck toward him without thinking.
heβs still fully dressed, which feels unfair, so you tug at his t-shirt, fumbling with the hem until he gets the hint and yanks it off one-handedly, the metal arm whirring faintly as he does.
his skin is warm under your palms, scarred in places you know by heart, and you trace one of the lines across his chest, feeling the way his muscles tense under your touch.
bucky walks you toward the bed, never breaking the kiss, until the back of your knees hit the edge. you plop down, pulling him with you.
he kneels between your legs, hands on your thighs spreading them wider, and leans in to kiss your inner thigh, then higher, breath hot against your core.
but he doesnβt linger there. instead, he crawls up over you, bracing on his elbows, and you feel the weight of him settling between your hips, the hard line of his erection still trapped in his jeans but grinding against you now.
βbucky, please,β you whisper, hands roaming his back, nails scraping lightly because you know it makes him shudder.
a low groan escapes as he rocks against you again, harder this time.
βyeah, i know,β his voice is strained, like heβs holding himself back by a thread. his mouth finds your neck, sucking at the pulse point until youβre squirming under him, then lower again, back to your breasts. not bothering to unclasp it, he tugs it down until his lips close over one nipple, tongue flicking in a way that shoots straight to your core.
you arch up to press closer, as he switches sides, hand coming up to knead the other breast, thumb rolling over the peak until itβs hard and sensitive and beautifully aching.
the roomβs quiet except for your uneven breathing, and the soft sounds of his mouth on you.
youβre probably soaking the sheets already, you can feel it between your thighs, and every shift of his hips against you makes it worse, makes you ache for more.
his mouth closes over your nipple again, harder this time, tongue dragging slowly before he sucks and pulls, like heβs trying to draw something out that isnβt there yet. a sharp little gasp slips out of you, and he groans against your skin.
his hips jerk forward, cock thick and leaking through his boxers, smearing wet against your thigh, and he doesnβt even pretend to hide it anymore.
your tits are already so soft, so full under his tongue, but all he can see is how theyβd changeβ¦ how theyβd get heavier, rounder, with veins faint under the skin, nipples dark and sensitive from feeding his kid.
the thought makes his balls tighten, makes another bead of pre-cum soak through the fabric when he grinds again.
when he switches sides, his teeth grazes you just enough to sting, and his metal hand slides up to cup the other breast, thumb brushing the peak in lazy circles while he imagines milk beading there. he imagines tasting the warm and sweet milk, while you moan underneath him like you are doing right now.
you feel it too, the way heβs getting more desperate, hips moving faster now, like he canβt wait. your hands find his belt, fingers clumsy as you undo it, then the zipper, pushing his jeans down just enough to free him.
heβs thick and heavy in your hand, skin hot and velvety. when you stroke, your thumb swipes over the tip where heβs already slick, bucky hisses, forehead dropping to your shoulder, and bites down gently, enough to mark, enough to brand.
βfuck, baby,β he breathes, hips jerking into your touch. βneed to be inside you. now.β
you nod because thatβs all you can possibly do. you guide him as he shifts, lining him up to where you desperately want him.
he thrusts in all at once, making you cry out. itβs almost too much, the stretch, the fullness, but god, itβs exactly what you need.
bucky groans loud, burying his face in your neck, holding still for a second like heβs savoring it, the way you clench around him.
pulling back almost all the way before slamming in again, he sets a rhythm thatβs fast and steady.
each thrust hits deep, rubbing against that spot inside that makes stars burst behind your eyelids. all you can do is wrap your legs around his waist, heels digging into his back to pull him closer.
his metal hand grips your hip, hard enough to bruise, while the other slides up to your belly, palm flat against the soft skin there.
the touch surprises you, because heβs never touched like this. you gasp when his hand lingers, pressing gently. something about it feels different, more intentional.
the feel of you under his palm is smooth now but he can picture it rounded out, full with his child, and the thought nearly undoes him. he thrusts harder, chasing that image, the way youβd look, the way itβd feel to know he put that there.
youβre lost in the sensation, the slap of skin on skin, the wet sounds where youβre joined, his breath against your ear. βso fucking good,β his words slur a little. βalways so good for me. taking me like this.β
your nails rake down his back, making him moan at the sting, hips snapping forward in response.
sweat slicks your bodies, making everything slide easier, and you feel the coil in your belly tightening, building fast.
buckyβs hand on your belly presses a little firmer, thumb stroking back and forth, and you wonder if itβs the softness he likes, the way you give under his touch.
but then he lifts his head, eyes locking on yours, and thereβs something wild there, something that makes your heart stutter. βcanβt wait,β his voice breaks in time with a thrust. βcanβt wait to see you round with my kid. fuck, youβd be so beautiful like that. all mine.β
the words steal your breath. thatβs what he meant? thatβs whatβs been driving him crazy all afternoon? the idea mixing with the pleasure, heightens everything. when you clench around him without meaning to, his thrusts pick up speed.
βyeah?β his voice is almost desperate now, hand still on your belly like heβs claiming it. βyou want that? me filling you up, putting a baby in you?β
you canβt speak, not really. you just nod and whimper as he drives in harder, the angle shifting so heβs grinding against your clit with every move.
itβs too much. everythingβs too much. the words, the feel of him so deep, and you come undone suddenly, crying out his name as waves crash over you, body shaking under him.
bucky follows right after, thrusting twice more before he stills, buried as deep as he can go, spilling hot inside you with a guttural moan.
thatβs when you feel it, the warmth flooding you, his cock twitching as he empties himself, as he collapses half on top of you, face pressed into your hair.
his fingers trace lazy patterns on your lower abdomen, and you cover it with yours, wondering if he can feel the way your pulse still races.
he shifts finally, pulling out slowly, making you hiss at the emptiness. the way his cum leaks out a little, trickling down your thigh. bucky watches it as his eyes darken again, and swipes his thumb through the mess, pushing it back inside you gently. βkeep it there,β he murmurs, almost to himself. βwanna see you full.β
your legs closing around his hand instinctively, earning a satisfied smile from him. thatβs when he leans down to place a soft and lingering kiss toyour stomach.
moving up, his mouth finds your breast again, sucking lazily at the nipple like heβs got all the time in the world, making you squirm, oversensitive but not wanting him to stop.
βbucky,β your hand is in his hair, not sure if youβre pulling him closer or what.
he hums against your skin, and switches sides, tongue circling the peak before drawing it into his mouth.
the sensation builds slower this time, a warm ache between your legs even though youβre still coming down from the first.
heβs half-hard again already, pressing against your thigh, and you realize that heβs not done. heβs not even close.
βone more,β his voice is soft, almost a whisper at first. βwanna feel you come around me again.β
you nod, because how could you not, and pull him up for a kiss that tastes like salt and sex. he slides back into you easily, the slick from before helping with the gliding movement, and starts moving, deep rolls of his hips that make you gasp each time.
itβs less frantic now, more slow, but no less intense. every thrust drags against your walls, building that pressure again.
his mouth wanders back to your breasts, alternating kisses and bites, sucking marks into the soft flesh thatβll show tomorrow under your clothes.
you arch into it, loving the possessiveness, the way heβs claiming every inch.
the idea heβs planted takes root, making you imagine your body changing, belly curving out. it shouldnβt turn you on this much, but it does, and that makes you clench tighter around him.
bucky feels it somehow. βthatβs it. think about it. how good youβd look. how iβd take care of you.β his words are punctuated by thrusts, harder now, and youβre climbing again, faster than before.
when you come this time, itβs quieter, a shuddering wave that leaves you boneless, and he chases his own release with a few more snaps of his hips, spilling again with your name on his lips. he stays inside you after, not pulling out, just holding you close.
he kisses your temple, βnot letting you up yet. wanna make sure it takes.β
you laugh breathlessly, but donβt argue, because part of you doesnβt want to move either.
for a minute itβs just quiet. the kind of quiet that settles after everythingβs been said and done, when the urgency finally burns down. his lips brush your temple again soft enough that it almost doesnβt register. then he shifts enough to look at you.
his hairβs sticking up in stupid directions, face flushed, eyes still dark but softer now, like the wild edge has worn off for a second. he swallows, and lets out this small, almost embarrassed huff of a laugh.
βshit,β he mutters. βiβmβ¦ i got carried away.β
you feel the corner of your mouth twitch. βyou think?β
βi didnβt mean to justβ¦ unload all that on you. the kid thing. fuck. sounded insane, didnβt it?β
you shake your head, fingers sliding up to push some of the damp hair off his forehead. βsounded like you.β
he searches your face for a beat, like heβs waiting for the other shoe to drop. when it doesnβt, he exhales through and drops his head back to your shoulder. βiβm pathetic. saw you with ben for five minutes and my brain short-circuited. started picturingβ¦ everything. it hit me so hard i couldnβt think straight.β
you feel the words settle somewhere deep in your chest. you card your fingers through his hair again, slower this time. βyouβre not pathetic. youβre justβ¦ you. and i like that version of you.β
he makes a small sound, something between a hum and a groan, and presses a kiss to the curve where your neck meets your shoulder. itβs gentle. then another one, a little higher. heβs not trying to start anything again, not yet. just kissing like he needs to feel youβre still here.
βi keep thinking about how you looked at him,β he says quietly. βthe way you didnβt even hesitate. just dropped down on the floor, started coloring like it was nothing. like youβve done it a thousand times. and ben justβ¦ trusted you. melted right into you. i couldnβt stop staring.β
his hand moves again on your belly, palm spreading wider, fingers splaying like heβs holding something fragile. βmade me want that. for real. want to see you like that. want to be the reason.β
your throat feels tight. βbuckyβ¦β
βi know,β he cuts in fast, like heβs afraid youβll shut it down. βi know itβs a lot. i know weβre not even close to that yet. i justβ i couldnβt keep it in my head anymore. needed you to know.β
you turn your face toward him, nose brushing his. βi know now.β
he nods abd then kisses you. it is slow, no teeth this time. just lips moving against yours, like heβs trying to say the rest without words. when he pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours.
βyouβre too good for me,β he whispers. itβs so quiet you almost miss it.
βshut up,β you mutter back, but thereβs no heat in it. you press your palm over his hand, the one still on your belly. βyouβre allowed to want things. even big, scary things.β
he lets out another small laugh, this one is more real. βbig and scary. yeah. that about sums it up.β
the room is quiet except for the way your breathing starts to sync up again, until your voice breaks the silence, βit was kinda hot, actually.β
his eyes search yours with a grin tugging at his mouth. βyeah? not freaked out?β
βa little. but mostlyβ¦ curious.β you admit, feeling heat creep up your neck. curious about how itβd feel, about the changes, about building something like that with him. itβs scary, sure, but exciting too, the way big things are.
bucky nods like he gets it, and leans in to kiss you. his hand slides up to cup your breast again, thumb brushing the nipple in a way that makes you sigh into his mouth.
βthese would getβ fuckβ,β he murmurs against your lips, squeezing lightly. βsensitive. iβd have to be careful.β
you bite your lip, because you canβt help but imagine it. the way theyβd ache, fill his hands more, the way heβd touch you then, softer maybe, or not. the thought sends a fresh wave of warmth through you, and you shift under him, feeling him twitch inside you. just enough to remind you heβs there. βgoddamn it,β he mumbles. βiβm never gonna be normal around you again, am i?β
you huff a laugh and shift your hips just a little, enough to make him hiss. βprobably not.β
βbuckyβ¦β
βhmm?β heβs kissing down your neck again, slow path to your chest, where he nuzzles against the curve. βtell me to stop if itβs too much.β
but you donβt. you arch up as his mouth closes over you again, sucking so gently to a point you no longer think itβs sexual. then his other hand kneads the opposite breast, rolling the nipple between fingers until itβs peaked and throbbing. and you know it is indeed sexual.
itβs almost overwhelming, the dual sensation, and you feel yourself getting much more wetter around him, body responding even though youβre spent.
your legs are jelly, thighs trembling around his hips, and thereβs a sticky warm mess between you that keeps leaking out no matter how tightly you clench.
for a moment he settles and you think heβs finally gonna let you both come down, maybe pass out tangled like this, but then he twitches. thickens again inside you. just like that.
he canβt help but move, shallow thrusts that rock you gently. βone more time,β he whispers. βfor luck.β
βbuckyββ
βshh. one more.β his voice is wrecked. he shifts his weight, rolls his hips once, and you both hiss at how sensitive everything is. βjust one more, baby. please.β he is begging at this point.
youβre laughing, probably because youβre breathless and a little delirious, because who the hell has stamina like this? but your bodyβs already answering for you. your cunt is fluttering around him, slicking him up again like itβs hungry for it.
he starts moving in these long, dragging rolls that make you feel every inch of him pulling out and sinking back in. his metal hand slides up to brace beside your head, while the flesh one stays glued to your stomach, thumb stroking back and forth over the softest part like heβs mapping it.
βfuckβ¦ look at you.β heβs staring down between you, watching where he disappears inside you. βso pretty taking me. always so pretty.β
suddenly you feel self conscious about the whole nakedness of it all, you reach for him, fingers curling around his neck, trying to pull his mouth to yours to make him stop staring. but he resists. he keeps looking. keeps talking.
βgonna keep you full tonight,β he mutters. βgonna pump you so deep youβll feel me for days. canβtβ canβt stop thinking about it. about youβ¦ like this, butββ his hips stutters. βbut round. fuck. so round with my kid.β
your cunt clenches hard around him without permission and he groans like you punched him.
βyeah, like that,β he pants. βfuck, you like hearing it donβt you? like knowing i wanna knock you up. want everyone to see it. see you carrying whatβs mine.β
heβs moving faster now, deeper, the wet slap of it loud in the quiet room. his hand presses down firmer on your belly, like heβs already imagining the swell, like he can feel it under his palm right this second.
then comes your tits. βtheseββ he ducks his head, mouth closing over one nipple again, sucking hard enough to make you arch and whine. he lets go with a wet pop. βthese are gonna get so full. heavy. leaking for me. gonna taste you, baby. gonna drink every drop while i fuck you, just like this. gonnaβ shitβ gonna breed you so good. fill you up till it takes. till youβre mine in every fucking way.β
itβs filthy. itβs too much. itβs exactly what you didnβt know you needed to hear.
your hands scrabble at his shoulders, nails biting in, and he likes that. he likes the way youβre pulling him closer like you canβt get enough either.
heβs rambling now in half-coherent words like he cannot help himself.
βyouβd be so beautiful. fuck. tits all swollen, belly round, hips widerβ god, iβdβ iβd worship you. every day. kiss every inch. fuck you gentle when youβre tired, fuck you hard when you beg for it. justβ just wanna see you like that. wanna give you that, baby.β
you feel himshaking. forehead pressed to yours, eyes squeezed shut like the image is hurting him in the best way.
βsay it,β he chokes out. βtell meβ fuckβ tell me you'd let me do it. let meβ¦ knock you up. please, baby, just say it. let me make you a mommy.β
youβre so close it hurts. everythingβs tight and hot and spinning, and his words are pushing you right to the edge.
βyeah,β you gasp. βyeah, bucky. want it. want you toβ to breed me. want your baby.β
like he was waiting for that word to leave your mouth, he slams in hard and buries himself so deep you feel him in your throat.
with a broken sound, heβs coming again. his cum floods you, make you clench and shudder around him until youβre coming too, just trembling pulses that milk him dry.
he just collapses on top of you again, his lips brush your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth.
βnot going anywhere,β he mumbles eventually, voice soft now, almost sleepy. βgonna stay right here. make sure you keep every bit.β
my masterlist!
extras. iβm gonna be taking a break till the end of jan. see you on the other side π₯Ή ps. donβt let this flop lol
sit next to me (please) [eddie munson x fem!reader]
you've always hated touch, avoided it ardently - until he came along.
warnings: use of she/her pronouns for reader, touch-avoidant reader, lots of yearning, talk of personal boundaries, readers becomes touch-starved for one (1) man, consumption of alcohol and weed, very slow burn.
word count: 11.2k+
a/n: this was originally titled "would that i" and i believe that i wrote it while listening to the hozier song, craving some super soft eddie all those moons ago. sorry that i tried to bury this one in the graveyard, y'all. i self-projected like all hell onto this reader as well lmao
dividers by @saradika-graphics
How one person can be such a walking contradiction, no one knows.
There is a softness to you. It bleeds out of you, endless and endearing to all those around you. The way youβll converse with friends with shining eyes, the way you close doors with care, the way you treat your favorite novel like a newborn babe. With both all the inanimate and animate objects around you, your touch is ever warm, ever tender. Like the sweep of a thin curtain sheet in a summer's breeze, or plush grass beneath calves in a verdant spring. Your touch is something to experience, and that was where the dichotomy came into play.
Your touch was deeply sought after, and was a rarity all on its own.
You were amongst the softest people in your friend group, and yet, rarely did you find yourself to be particularly physical. Your petal affections were usually restricted to affirmative words and acts of kindness. Your friends knew that if they needed words of encouragement, you should be the first person they ran to. If they needed a hug, however, you were not.Β
Itβs not because you were cruel or against the displays of physicality. You were just awkward with them. You would turn frigid over the brush of anotherβs skin against your own. Youβd tried to change over the years, offering more goodbye hugs, more spontaneous playing with Nancyβs hair or high fives exchanged with Steve when you kicked one of the younger boysβ asses at the arcade. You tried. But it was hard β something had rooted itself in you long ago that continued to choke you and limit just how much you could handle when it came to anotherβs touch.Β
When Robin joined the group, she tried to warm you up more to it. Despite warnings from the group, whispers of she doesnβt like that, sheβd continued to offer you her friendly physical affections as long as you reassured her it was fine. It worked, to an extent. You would now at least return the hugs received (even if it took you a few moments to do so), and you wouldnβt hold your breath at a friendβs head on your shoulder or lap. It was all baby steps β timid movements in the right direction, an accomplishment of letting your softness flow through your fingertips as you tried to adjust.Β
Argyle also tried to wear you down. A casual arm around your shoulder in greeting, frequently sitting close enough to you on movie nights that your side would press into his as you both enjoyed the pizza heβd brought. You still froze, still struggled to thaw, but you never shooed him away. Youβd only exchange a secret smile with him, a private acknowledgement between you two that you knew what he was trying to do, and it was okay. Maybe it would work. Robin had, after all, made some baby steps. Maybe Argyle could help you take fuller strides. Maybe, just maybe, this could propel you.Β
The night you drunkenly braided Argyleβs hair had been a memorable success, but it never progressed past that. The roots remained, the timid natured reigned, and so your friend group simply celebrated what little victories theyβd earned and moved on.
Theyβd accepted you may never be a touchy person. And that was fine β all that you lacked in physical touch, you more than made up for in every other avenue in expression of your fondness.Β
Until Eddie.
The moment heβd joined your circle, Argyle and Robin were already exchanging knowing looks. Eddie was touchy; the boy was practically starved for it. Overexcited hugs as greetings and the way his hand would reach for the nearest shoulder when he was overcome with joy for the small things. He couldnβt sit alone during movie nights, heβd often lounge with his legs stretched out over the nearest laps, heβd jokingly cuddle into people without a second thought.
And even more than that, his touch was wild and burning. Embers never to be contained. He was overwhelming, they all knew this and so did he, and they feared that if he attempted to embark on the same journey that they had that he may scare you away. That all the baby steps in the right direction would become leaps backward, sending you right back to where you started.Β
They couldnβt have been more wrong.
Youβd first noticed that Eddie treated you differently, more restrained, during a movie night. Argyle on one side, a small empty space on the other. Youβd witness everyone endure Eddieβs cinematic cuddles on multiple occasions, and amongst your roots had bloomed buds of wistfulness. A strange yearning every time heβd tuck his face into the neck of whichever friend was nearest, jokingly squealing how he needed them to protect him. They saw him as a pest (a lovable one, but still) β and youβd never wanted to be pestered more in your life.Β
That small space beside you was the last open seat. You thought surely, heβll sit here. You were optimistic at the likelihood of Eddie sharing your space, of feeling his curls tickle your cheek and neck, at his breath on your shoulder. For the first time in your life, you were painfully giddy at the prospect of someone touching you. When he entered the room with Jonathan, carrying bowls of popcorn and loudly telling everyone to turn on the horror movie chosen for the night, your entire body had buzzed. You would have leapt off that couch and crawled inside his chest right then and there if it wouldnβt have been so startling to not only him, but your entire circle.
He took one look at the empty seat, a pitiful excuse for space, and had paled.
Please sit next to me. Please, please, ple-
βSpread your legs, Harrington,β Eddie had suddenly bursted out, throwing himself on the floor in front of Steve at the opposite end of the couch, βIβm using your knees as collateral from Krueger.βΒ
He chose the floor over sitting at your side. And it ached.Β
You were unaware of the spiel that Robin and Argyle gave him, the staunch warnings from Nancy, the (sort of) joking threats from Steve and Jonathan. Eddie Munson had been warned off from touching you, was obeying those warnings, and it just left you miserable.Β
You didnβt get it. You didnβt understand β his choices nor your feelings.Β
But that night, the burn of Argyleβs arm brushing your shoulder from where it laid along the back of the couch became overwhelming. Until youβd scooted yourself into that space youβd carved out for Eddie, and pouted, like a goddamn child.
Argyle assumed it was just a bad day for touch.
No one realized the yearning blooming within you. Youβd never wanted to take a baseball bat to Steve Harringtonβs shins more than when you watched Eddie Munson wrap his fingers around them and bury his cheek against them.Β
The second time, it stung even more.
Months passed and the yearning never faded. You told yourself, over and over, this will pass. This is temporary, and it will pass.Β
But it didnβt. The more time you spent with Eddie amongst your friend group, the more you craved the same casual touch from him that he extended to everyone else. He wouldnβt even brush past you in enclosed spaces β he treated you like a traumatized dog, bound to snap and bite him if he made the wrong move.
You fucking hated it. You hated that you hated it.
Youβd gone years without needing touch, so you cursed that unexpected sting in your chest that night at the bowling alley. When Eddie rolled his first strike (and reported it was his first ever), heβd hugged everyone.
Everyone but you.
When it came to what should have been your turn for a bear hug, your mind was buzzing with adrenaline. This was it. You pictured him wrapping his tattooed arms around your chest, lifting you at least a little bit, swinging you a little due to the force of his affection. You were convinced his high off of the strike was going to make him forget his mission to never touch you. Maybe heβd be embarrassed after. Maybe you could finally offer a small smile that said itβs okay, Iβm okay with it.
He only stopped dead in his tracks, arms freezing for a second before they dropped, his lips pressing tightly together before he let them spread back into a smile, and only lifted his brows at you excitedly.Β
Thatβs it. Thatβs all.
Fuck.Β
βThat was pretty metal, Eddie,β you tried to egg him on, bouncing on the soles of your shoes a little, practically begging him with your eyes to just hug you.Β
Heβd been bashful, grinning and hiding his face behind a random curl, nodding, βYeah. Yeah, I guess it was.βΒ
If youβd known of the talks behind your back then that had ruined that moment, you would have wrecked absolute havoc on your friends. The need, the yearning, the want became impossible to handle. You used his strike as an excuse for him to cover your turn, saying he was on a roll right after exclaiming that if you didnβt go to the bathroom right that second, youβd piss yourself.
When you were alone in the stall, youβd silently screamed and tugged at the roots of your hair.Β
You wanted him to touch you. You wanted him to catch you off guard in larger than life hugs. You wanted to feel every emotion that thrummed beneath his skin and you wanted to breathe in his cologne, to finally know how sturdy his chest felt beneath his shirt and if his rings really were as cold as Nancy always complained.Β
Youβd finally returned to the group, not able to have a full breakdown in the bathroom without worrying your friends with your absence. Subtly, youβd tried to tuck yourself into Robinβs side when you returned, sitting down a bit closer than you normally would have, just to fill the void. It was almost as if you were encouraging her to reach an arm around you, to let you curl up and press a cheek to her collarbone. Try to alleviate the need for human touch clawing its way through you.
βYou okay, babe?β she questioned suspiciously when she felt you squished entirely up against her. There was plenty of space on the bench, there was no reason for your proximity.
No, you wanted to scream, Iβm not okay. There is an itch beneath my skin right now that can only be scratched by the affectionate touches of the metalhead sitting across from us whoβs joking with our friends, completely unaffected and unaware. He wonβt even look me in the eye. And so now Iβm trying to get you to just touch me, to just put a goddamn arm around me, to do anything to fill the gaping hole inside of me. But you canβt.Β
It was an unfair situation to every single party and bystander involved.
βYeah, Iβm fine,β you lied.Β
You canβt, because the only person who can fill this gaping void inside of me is Eddie.
You were the farthest from fine. You were in flames. And no one would understand it, least of all you, because this wasnβt like you.
You didnβt crave touch. You didnβt need it to survive. So, what the hell was this that you were feeling?Β
The craving for Eddieβs touch evolved into something more, and thatβs when you knew that you were surely in trouble.Β
Audible denial only worked for so long. Festering, longing, and yearning could only be withheld for so long until suddenly, with your mind on fire and your bones aching to the core, you realized that it was more than wanting Eddie to reach out for you. The want became a two way street. More often than not, you find your hands to be fists at your side, shaking with the effort to not bridge the gap.Β
After a year of friendship, he had had no choice but to occasionally brush past you. Touches that must have been fleeting to him, but lingered for you. Theyβd settle into your skin, tender like a fresh bruise, ghosting over you at night when you couldnβt sleep. It was more than just touch, at this point. You wanted everything from Eddie. The denial of his touch had led to you missing out on more than just hugs and movie night cuddles β Eddie didnβt joke with you as much as he did the others, didnβt always turn to you in crowded rooms for comfort, wouldnβt call you up if he was up late and bored like he would Nancy, Steve, Robin, Argyle, fucking everyone in Hawkins except you. The distance was unbearable.
Because you did. You did look for him at every quaint hang out. You did seek him out in every room you entered and you did resist the urge to call him when sleep evaded you. You could imagine his voice over the line, a lullaby over the receiver as heβd ramble about his day. It was like a poison, infecting those roots youβd long since made friends with rather than try to dig up.Β
You were fucked. Plain and simple. You had a big, fat crush on Eddie, and for once in your life, youβd learned of the panging hunger to be touched.Β
βDoes Eddie have a girlfriend?β you asked as you sat with Robin at a diner, having completely zoned out with the conversation between her and Steve, lost in your daydreams, βOr boyfriend? Just- Is he single?βΒ
Both of your friends went dead silent, staring at you in awe.
Robin cleared her throat, but remained choked up until Steve spoke, βUh, yeah. Heβs single. Why?βΒ
The way your eyes darted down to the table of the booth you three occupy gave it away.
Robin suddenly squealed, βOh my gosh! You have a crush on him!βΒ
βDo not!β
βOh, you so do!β she grinned wildly, leaning in close, βTell us everything β now.βΒ
βEddie?β Steveβs nose scrunched up, βReally?βΒ
βI donβt have a crush on him!β you uselessly defended yourself, βI just- Look, no, I know that look. You canβt tell him or meddle, Robin.βΒ
βHow would I tell him or meddle if you donβt have a crush on him?βΒ
Steve was still confused, and Robinβs eyes glittered with mischief. You would have been better off keeping your mouth shut.Β
You noticed the way Steve had gone silent, pointedly sipping on his coke rather than looking you in the eyes. As if he had something to say.
βWhat is it?β you asked him, furrowing your brows, already defensive. A stark contrast to the light-heartedness you usually treat your friends with, βYouβve got something to say. Say it.βΒ
βI justβ¦β Steve sighed, looking off into the distance, βI donβt know. Itβs a weird pairing, yβknow?β
Your stomach threatened to sink. βWhat does that mean?β
βYou two are justβ¦ different,β he continued on, and your stomach really did sink. Right along with your heart, βI mean, heβs really big on physical touch β itβs definitely his love language. And youβ¦β
You donβt like being touched. You actually hate it. Avoid it ardently.
The unspoken ending to that sentence could have shattered your bones that day. You knew. You knew.
You stayed silent, unsure of what else to say. You couldnβt find the words to explain the yearning that invaded your chest all those moons ago, you couldnβt physically bring their hands to your chest and force them to feel the hunger that had begun to eat you alive. You couldnβt scream at your friends, I can change! I can change! I can change!
βI think theyβd make a cute couple,β Robin finally broke the tense silence. Steve looked a bit regretful, but you both knew he was right, βBesides, touching is overrated.βΒ
To emphasize her point, she scooted away from Steve until she sat on the very edge of the vinyl seat they shared, a narrow air of separation between them.Β
You smiled and laughed, and so did Steve, but the fact of the matter still remained.
Your roots have been there since the beginning of time. And maybe, they ran so deeply that you were a fool for thinking you could ever excavate them.Β
βI need your help.βΒ
Robin looks up at you shocked. Youβd never looked quite so determined, so one-track minded as you did in this moment, right in Steve Harringtonβs kitchen.Β
βYou need my help?β she nearly yells, fumbling with the empty bowl she was about to fill with chips, βAre you sure you need my-β
βPositive,β you cut her off, βI need your help because you didnβt laugh in my face when I said I liked Eddie.βΒ
Her shock fades, an awful trace of pity in her eyes as she looks at you, βOh, hon β Steve wasnβt laughing at you. Heβs just a dingus, yβknow? Doesnβt always think before he speaks, but he has the best of intentions-β
You wave a hand, physically dispersing her words into the air. That conversation at the diner last week didnβt phase you anymore. In fact, it fuels you the more you think about it.
βI know, I know,β you reassure her, walking closer so you can lower your voice, βBut he was right. And Iβve been thinking a lot about it.β
βThat sounds dangerous. Whatchaβ been thinkinβ about?βΒ
This is it. Now or never. Once you say it outloud, even to just Robin, it was cemented in fact.
βItβs not that I donβt like being touched,β you blurt out, heart racing at the admission, βI justβ¦ I donβt know. Iβm not used to it. It wasnβt something normal growing up. Andβ¦ okay, no, this is not meant to be a depressing deep dive into my childhood,β you pause and scowl at the way her face contorts with even more pity, βIβm fine. Thereβs nothing to be done to change whatβs already passed. My point is, I donβt want to stay this way. I donβt want people treating me delicately. Iβm tired of you guys not feeling like you can just- fuck, I donβt know, hug me. Like you can throw an arm around me while we joke around like you do Jonathan. Like you canβt take the seat beside me at the booth instead of Steve. Like you canβt be clingy and beg me to play with your hair like you do Argyle when everyoneβs smoking.β
Throughout your speech, the pity transforms. With each word, you only grow more passionate, because it dawns on you just how much you miss out on. Your friends love you, you love them β thatβs not up for debate. But sometimes, you see those small touches between them, and you feel like an outsider looking in.Β
βI know I freeze up and I know I get awkward,β your voice finally chokes up, and you have to squeeze your eyes shut to silently curse yourself for finally letting all these larger than life emotions wrap around you, βI know you guys think Iβm better off if you leave it be. But Iβm not. Iβll never get over it if you guys donβt push me. Iβll never get used to it if no one ever touches me.βΒ
βWe know!β Robin starts enthusiastically, reassuredly, βWe know that! And me and Gyle really do try, but we just donβt want to make you uncomfortable-β
βDo it,β you stop her in her tracks, eyes not wavering from hers, βMake me uncomfortable. Put your head on my shoulder, even if it makes my breathing stop for a couple seconds. Grab my hand when we cross a street, even if my palmβs clammy. I canβt grow without a little discomfort, Robs.β
Thereβs a standstill in the air. A realization settles deep in your bones β growth. Thatβs what you were craving. Eddie had opened up something entirely new for you, cracked open an age old wound in your chest youβd been unaware of. It left behind a hole, and youβd been so preoccupied with yearning to fill it, you hadnβt seen that the solution was the most obvious one: you had to outgrow the hole. Not fill it with others, but with yourself. You couldnβt live forever as nothing more than roots, buried deep beneath soil and always hiding in their solitude. Eventually, you had to bloom.Β
βOkay,β Robin nods slowly, taking in your words and the deep breaths that are following. Itβs obvious how much this means to you, how much itβs been bothering you, βYouβre right. Butβ¦ youβve just gotta promise us, if we get overbearing, that you tell us-β
βNot just you and Argyle,β your mouth goes dry. Because this is where the road was leading the entire time, this was the end destination in mind for the entire drive of this conversation, βI wantβ¦ everyone to do it. I know Nance, Jon, and Steve arenβt as big on the whole touchy thing as you and him butβ¦β your voice finally breaks, and you canβt look her in the eyes now as you whisper, βEddie is.βΒ
Thereβs a light behind Robinβs eyes that youβve never seen before, but you canβt even bear witness to it, eyes zeroed in on the shiny packaging of the chips on the counter, βSo this really is about Eddie?βΒ
You could keep denying it. Pretend like the boy hadnβt watered the first sprout that caused this entire revelation, like he hadnβt been the first to shine a light on all the things youβd ignored for years. But he was. He had built a fire inside of you without even realizing it, just by tending his own embers.Β
You take a deep breath, βItβs like it burns him to touch me. Even just shuffling past me. I donβt think heβs ever sat beside me when we all hang out. I donβtβ¦ I donβt even know what he really smells like, Rob. Besides the weed and cigarettes when he smokes with you guys. How fucked is that? Iβve known him for a year and I couldnβt even tell you what kind of cologne he wears. Isnβt thatβ¦ thatβs weird, right?βΒ
βYou know the things that matter, though, donβt you?βΒ
It hadnβt occurred to you, that perspective on the matter. βIβ¦ guess?β
βTell me about him. Tell me about Eddie.βΒ
The others will be worrying about how long you two are taking in here soon. Eddie will probably be arriving with Argyle soon. But Robin waits patiently until your eyes finally find hers again, and she lifts her brows, encouraging you to tell her about your mutual friend as if sheβs never met him.Β
And so you do.
Once you start rattling off the minute things you noticed, they pour out of you, watering away at that once withered crush. You tell her about his favorite music, an easy thing to know about Eddie when heβs so loud and passionate about it. You tell her the first song he ever learned on guitar, Little Things by Willie Nelson. It had been encouraged by how much his Uncle Wayne enjoyed the singer. And heβd learned it on a worn acoustic guitar from his uncle. Heβd never even performed it in front of the man, always either too choked up or too embarrassed for an audience. You tell her how his favorite subject in school was history, because it always gave him ideas for his DnD campaigns. His favorite color is red, deep and pulsing and eye-catching. The same shade of his electric guitar, lovingly nicknamed Sweetheart, but actually named Elvira. Heβs a picky eater, probably the pickiest of your group, and yet also will eat just about anything the moment you propose it as a dare. He knows what he should do to take care of his curls, he just doesnβt, probably due to preferring to take his showers at night. Heβs complained of falling asleep with wet hair more times than you can count. He had a lisp as a little kid. He buys a new mug for Wayne every Christmas, and the man acts surprised every year, as if he never saw it coming. He likes sour candy best. He hates movies where the dog dies. He loves musicals, and he would sooner die than admit that to the rest of the group.Β
All devilish details that Eddie had revealed to you at some point or another, over drinks and over quick cigarettes. Over random bursts of trust and rare moments alone.
By the time youβre done with your rant, Robin is just smiling.
βGod, you really like him,β she murmurs, looking across your forlorn face, as if each piece of him that youβd handed over willingly had actually been forcibly torn from you. As if it hurt to share him.Β
You take another deep breath, and you can breathe a little bit easier, but you still feel the wisps of your roots still dug stubbornly into surrounding ground, βYeah. I really like him.βΒ
A plan is devised. It turns out Robin was the perfect person to approach about this, because she has no shame β sheβs willing to seem like a βbad friendβ for the sake of helping you reach your goal.
The first step is to guarantee that no matter what, Eddie sits next to you during the movie.Β
The best way to accomplish this is to not make it a seat only beside you as you had that first time heβd rejected you, but between you and another person. Because then, if Eddie was still adamant on not indulging you, heβd have someone else to cling to. For now.
The second step would be for you to leave for the bathroom right before you all started the movie. Leave the room, leave all your friends to be gathered without you so that Robin could make an executive call with them all. She would bring up the fact that they all should try to push you a bit more with the entire notion of physical touch, that itβd be good for you, that youβd brought it up casually rather than as dramatically as you really had.Β
During her explaining of this part of the plan, you discovered the conversations already had behind closed doors about this topic and you.Β
You couldnβt even blame your friends. You were irritated, but it would pass. They couldnβt change it now, but Robin could help undo what those seemingly beneficial conversations had done. The distance it had created between you and Eddie.
βWho should be on the other side of Eddie?β you ask once you two have your plan and full bowls of snacks.Β
βMe,β Robin declares, βI have a plan there, too. Weβll sit side by side at first, take up enough space on the couch so that Eddie thinks he doesnβt have a seat. Just trust me and play along when the time comes, yeah?βΒ
You nod.
Thereβs a knock at the door, perfect timing as you and Robin sat down the bowls of snacks on the table, ignoring Steveβs expected complaint of how long you two took. He runs off, going to let Eddie and Argyle in, as Robin takes her seat on the couch.Β
Nancy and Jonathan are curled up on the loveseat. Steve had been sitting at the end of the couch that normally could easily seat four. Argyleβs favorite recliner was wide open, and you both knew heβd be jumping into it once he came to the basement. Everything was set perfectly.
Robin manspreads, an entertaining sight but one that forces you to try and do the same, lounging across the remaining space of the couch as casually as possible to make it seem as though another person could absolutely not fit.
You pray to God her plan works.
βHello, brochachos!β Argyle yells as a greeting when he bounds down the stairs, immediately tossing a box of snow caps in Nancy and Jonathanβs directions before doing exactly as you and Robin had predicted, βOh, fuck yeah! You guys saved my favorite chair for me!β
He specifically winks your way, as if you had been the one to do so. And you had, technically, but you appreciated that small effort to greet you specifically.Β
You smile at him, shaking your head lightly as he throws himself down roughly. You can only imagine how on board heβll be with Robinβs suggestion.
Argyleβs energy had you wondering if the boys had even smoked as they usually did before arriving, his eyes hardly pink rimmed and his smile not quite as dopey as usual. It became clear that they had smoked, but one of them had likely babysat their shared joints, when Eddie descends into the doorway behind Steve.
Heβs all half-lidded eyes, lazy grin, comfort wrapped up in a worn band shirt and sweats.Β
Yes, you wanted to break this stubborn boundary of yours with all your friends, but as you earned your first glance from Eddie, you knew that he would be the greatest reward. You donβt even care if the crush aspect of the entire ordeal never comes to fruition; youβd just like to imagine burying your face into his warm chest like you are now, and not feel weird about it. Not worry if heβll push you away or be uncomfortable, or taken off guard, by it.
βHey, losers,β he greets in a rough voice, no doubt gravelly from how much he might have smoked.Β
You share a quick look with Robin, worried. High Eddie was always extra affectionate, but wouldnβt it be wrong to use that against him? Maybe you two should try another night, postpone the plan for another movie nigh-
You hadnβt even noticed that Steve had taken his original seat back and Eddie was glancing around the seating arrangement, seemingly lost, until Robin was suddenly shoving at you, βBabe, I love you, but scooch. Cβmere, Eds. Iβm in a cuddly mood.βΒ
And oh, that hurt. Which is why you suppose she didnβt tell you what exactly this part of the plan was. That hurt needed to break through your face, even if only for a moment, so that when you left the room, it made sense to discuss.Β
Argyle catches that micro-expression the moment it graces your features. Even furrows his brows in response. Eddie even opens his mouth to argue, but you move too quickly for anyone else to comment.
You fumble with pulling up your body, scooting over as she requested until there was an Eddie-sized space left between the two of you. When Robin opens her arms wide, Eddie has no room to argue.Β
βWell, if you insist, Buckley,β he teases, stepping carefully, hesitating for a second as he glances back down at you. Even through pink tinged eyes, you catch a flash of concern. βIβm always down for some cuddles with my favorite girl.β
And that also stings, reverberates like a slap to the face that had landed just a little too harshly.Β
Robin scoffs, muttering a stern correction of, βPlatonic cuddles, dipshit,β just as Nancy also laughs from where sheβs tangled with Jonathan.
βDidnβt you say I was your favorite when I bought you a coke last week?βΒ
He probably did. He constantly made those jokes with Robin and Nancy. He never made those jokes with you.Β
Maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe, just maybe, it wasnβt about respecting boundaries for Eddie. Maybe he just didnβt like you-
βYou both wound me,β he sighs out as his body lands directly in that space you and Robin had organized, clearly favoring being close to Robin so that his thigh wouldnβt rub against yours, βIβve officially changed my mind.βΒ
It almost happens in slow motion. Slowly, carefully, he lazily turns his head towards you, lips half lilted as his eyes sparkle in your direction, tongue darting out between his teeth before he drawls, βYouβre my favorite, now.βΒ
For the first time in a year, youβre very clearly smelling his cologne, and the look in his eyes is setting you ablaze. The softness you are so used to bargaining out is being returned, an expression so delicate being aimed at you that you donβt know what to do with it. Senses overwhelmed with something woodsy, something musky, and something yearning.Β
βHow charming,β Nancy muses, leveling you with a soft and amused look. Not nearly as gooey as the look Eddie had given you, but still adoring, βDonβt listen to him. Clearly, he says that to everyone.β
βYeah, but I mean it this time,β he argues.Β
βSure, you do,β Steve laughs from his end of the couch, βSheβs not gonna go grab you a soda just because youβre kissing ass.βΒ
βHey, you know what?β Argyle sits up in his chair, leaning towards you and pointing his finger in your direction, βYou really are my favorite, and Iβm a man of my word.βΒ
βIβm not getting you a soda, either, Gyle,β you flatly joke, narrowing your eyes.
He pours briefly, but shrugs, βFair enough. I meant it, but fair enough.βΒ
On a limb, you stretch out a hand, and deliver a gentle smack at his hand still hanging limply in the air between you two. Robin is watching on proudly as Argyle looks taken back.
βShut up,β you giggle, shimmying in your seat to get more comfortable.Β
Eddie looks wildly around the room, completely stunned, wearing a look of betrayal, βWhat, you guys donβt believe me? She really is my favorite!βΒ
Lord only knows you were melting into the cushion of that couch. You werenβt used to this amount of attention, certainly not from Eddie, and certainly not so clearly in front of your friends.
If you could hardly handle his words of affection, how would you handle his touches of affection?Β
βI believe you,β you finally say. Something in your mind screams at you, tells you now is your chance. All youβd have to do is shift your knee, and you could bump it to his in a joking manner. The perfect excuse. The perfect guise. You stare at your two knees for an eternity, though, and before you know it, the moment has passed.Β
The ache echoes out across the hollow of every bone inside your body as he smiles, satisfied with your response before everyone moves forward with conversation.
You hate yourself. You should have bumped your knee to his.Β
You donβt hear a single word exchanged amongst your friends. All you can hear is the roar in your ears that scorns you for another missed opportunity.Β
Now is as good as ever to enact the second phase of the plan.Β
βIβm gonna head to the bathroom before we start the movie,β you announce, standing a bit suddenly but trying to keep your voice even so it doesnβt seem to Eddie that his words had made you uncomfortable. They didnβt. Theyβd only fed that hunger, making you suddenly need more. It was your own stupid indecisiveness, what you didnβt do, that was upsetting you.Β
Robin looks up knowingly, βSounds good. Donβt miss me too much, babe.βΒ
Babe. Another thing your friends sometimes didnβt include you in β all the pet names, all the terms of endearment. It makes you smile.Β
If anyone thought you might be rushing out due to the entire conversation that had just taken place, that smile would erase all their fears.
βI always miss you, baby,β you cockily reply, making a joking kissy face in her direction to seal the flirtatious manner of the interaction.Β
Steve looks pleasantly surprised, Argyle is clearly mentally cheering you on, and Nancy looks plainly proud.Β
But Eddie is looking up at you, doe eyes almostβ¦ sad.Β
You try not to think of it too hard.Β
You try to take your time once you reach the top of the stairs, rushing up but slowing as you walk to the bathroom.
You didnβt really need it, obviously, and you highly doubt anyone will be listening in on your footsteps above once Robin proposes the entire debate of it treating you so fragile anymore. In the middle of the hallway, your mind is made up. Instead of continuing on to that bathroom, instead of hiding away and feeding into the panic attack currently brewing despite your full faith in Robin, you retract to the kitchen.
This is what you wanted. You want more than to just offer soft words and soft motivation, you want more than to be seen as the friend with a heart of gold, as the pedestal Argyle constantly puts you up on so eloquently. You want to be felt as it, too.Β
To give Nancy well-deserved hugs when another one of her publications receive recognition, to give Steveβs hand a firm squeeze when heβs confiding in you about his home situation and the loneliness that follows. You want Robin to hide her face in your shoulder for safety during jumpscares and you want to occupy that recliner with Argyle when you both decide to succumb to snacking while your friends endlessly debate where you should all have dinner, making whispers of commentary jokes before Jonathan would decide to sit on the arm and join you two in the audience as he gave up the battle for Nancyβs sake.
You want Eddie to touch you. You donβt even care how at this point. You want brushing shoulders and knocking knees, you want knuckles bumping into each other on the street and you want him to cling to you when it gets late and heβs tired, but not too tired to keep himself surrounded with his favorite people. You want to truly be his favorite. Favorite person, favorite hug, favorite conversation.Β
God, you want it so bad that your seams nearly burst. Your composure nearly breaks.Β
What if he doesnβt want that?Β
The moment your footsteps on the stairs have vanished, Robin springs into action.
βOkay, group meeting,β she says, clapping to garner everyoneβs attention. Eddie jumps slightly at her side, Steve offers her a side-eye, and Nancy shifts her entire body in Jonathanβs arms to look at her fully, βWe need to talk about her.βΒ
She doesnβt even have to say your name.
Unfortunately, Argyle takes it the wrong way, nearly leaping out of his chair, βHer? Nah, dude, we need to talk about you. Why would you shove her around like that? I bet if you had just asked politely, she would have cuddled yo-βΒ
βOh, I know she would have.βΒ
Everyoneβs attention is now sharper on Robin.
βYeah? Then why did you just toss her to the side for Ed-β Argyle starts up again, and once more, Robin is quick to interject.
βBecause she needs the push,β a slight lie, but small enough in the grand scheme of things, βWeβve gotta stop treating her like sheβll shatter if we touch her.β
Nancy finally moves to full sit up, face full of concern, βRobin, I get what youβre saying, but sheβs never been the touchy type. And thatβs okay. Weβve never minded.β
βWhat if she minds?β Robin persists. She hasnβt failed to notice Eddieβs silence, and turns to him, focusing her attack and determination, βHave you ever even sat beside her before tonight?βΒ
Eddieβs eyes widen, βYou guys told me to take it easy at first! And I did, but I- it would just be weird now to change, wouldnβt it?βΒ
Itβs in the way he says it. Not just as if heβs keeping your best interests in mind, but as if it pains him to say it. As if the worst possible thing would be to admit that things should stay the same.
Itβs Robinβs in. A falter in his cool guy exterior he only seems to care about maintaining for you.
βShe wants it to change,β Robin quietly confesses. Another half-truth, βMe and Argyle never fully got through to it, but we alsoβ¦ we just gave up on it. Like he was saying, if I pushed tonight, she would have said yes. But Eddie has never pushed her.β
βWhere are you going with this, Robs?β the one person who could blow this speaks up. Steve, the man who had been there at the diner and heard your practical confession to liking Eddie.
Donβt blow this, Dingus.
βI think we take the leash off of wolf boy, here,β she jabs a thumb in Eddieβs direction, βLay him on her.β
βI donβt want to make her uncomf-β
βYou wonβt. And if you do,β Robin remembers your speech from earlier. Those wet eyes and the way your voice cracked at the prospect of growth, βItβll be good for her.β
Heβs not convinced.
So Robin pushes, because she made a promise to you to aid in this self-gardening journey, and damn it she was going to keep her promise, βIβve seen the way she looks at you. You being the dog in this metaphor might be the wrong choice, considering how she looks like a kicked puppy every time you donβt sit next to her.βΒ
A bit harsh, but the truth. You were always brimming with such hope when Eddie entered the room, only to wilt when he kept up the same exhausting routine of avoiding you.Β
βShe does?β heβs clueless, a goddamn blinded fool, βI- Gyle, does she really?βΒ
Eddie looks to his friend for backup, but Argyle only shrugs from his seat, βIf you donβt give the poor dudette a hug tonight, I am. If Birdie here is being honest, and she wants it, then Iβm first in line. Sheβs way gentler on my scalp than all of you.βΒ
βYou just want your hair braided by her again,β Jonathan pipes up finally.
βSo?β Argyle defends, βThat shit stayed. My little skittish friend does not come to play when it has to do with hair.βΒ
They all fall silent, holding their breaths and listening for a moment if youβre heading back down to them.Β
The house is a ghost town from above.
βIβm just saying,β Robin finally whispers, keeping her tone low and gentle, almost defeated, βWe canβt put her in a box. She told me sheβd like the change, so Iβm changing. Sheβs a big girl. She can handle it. Besides, she smells really good.βΒ
Robin gives Eddie a pointed look at that, and sees the pink that rushes over the bridge of his nose and up his neck.
You had no idea. No fucking idea. But she did. Sheβd watched Eddie withhold himself, sheβd caught the longing glances, and sheβd listened to his endless rambles about you.Β
βOkay,β is his quiet reply just before your footsteps sound on the stairs.Β
When you appear in the doorway, youβre holding three cans of coke.
βI bring gifts for taking so long,β you offer, holding up one of the cans as you cradle the other two in the ditch of your arm, extending it to Argyle as you pass by him.
He takes it greedily, appreciation loud and unfiltered, βThank you dudette! At least someone here loves me.βΒ
You turn your eyes wide as moons, almost comical, fighting back a smile, βOh? Were they being jerks while I was gone?βΒ
βYou have no clue.β
A warning glare comes from Robin.
Even if you were in on the plan, it was dangerous territory.Β
When you approach the couch, Robin sees the first sign of the plan working when Eddie doesnβt shift out of the comfortable position heβd sunk into. He isnβt jumping to leave an entire cavern for you. Heβs leaving just enough space for you, enough that when you sit, youβre closer to him than you were before the bathroom.
Baby steps. Silently, she is screaming at him to keep it up, all while your brain bursts into flames.
He didnβt flinch away. He didnβt shift to be further from me.
Whatever Robin had said was working.
βMovie time?β you ask as you settle into that comfortable space, the unfamiliar yet indulgent warmth of Eddieβs body heat now wrapping around you.Β
Your roots stretch, apprehensive, but desperate for that sunlight.Β
Itβs one of your groupβs usual scary movies. You enjoyed horror, and could handle your own pretty well. If you ever got too scared, youβd usually cling to pillows or blankets that you were left with rather than another person as the rest of the group would. But there were no pillows, no blankets, no security cushions aside from the boy sitting between you and Robin.Β
When you hand him his coke, his fingers brush yours, and you donβt pull back immediately. Baby steps.
When the first tense moment appears on screen, Eddie mutters a soft βshitβ and jumps a little, leaning more into your space rather than Robinβs, lifting some of his curls to curtain his eyes.
You glance at him rather than the screen, narrowing your eyes in the dark, βDoes that really work?βΒ
Eddie looks at you quickly at your whisper. Normally, everyone scolded him to be quiet during movies, never entertaining his small comments.
You werenβt the only one taking baby steps tonight.
Tentatively, he drops the curl blocking his vision, before grabbing a thicker one, boyish grin as he offers it to you shyly, βWanna find out?βΒ
βSheβs here!β Argyle shouts as he opens the front door to you, hardly giving you warning before heβs leaping forward and gathering you into his arms, nearly crushing you into a hug.
Warmth. Tender. Softness.
Argyleβs hugs are always bone-crushing, and always welcome. And they always linger as he leaves his arm around your shoulder to guide you into the foyer and shut the door behind you two.
βShe is?β another voice shouts as she comes barreling out into the entryway, greeting you with an excited squeal as she rushes forward to pull you out of Argyleβs arm.
Robin.Β
Sheβs dressed up for the night β an impressively well put together Robin outfit, complete with yellow spanx and a black mask across her eyes.
βJesus, Robs,β you laugh as she tightens her arms around you, almost as if she was trying to crush any bones that survived Argyle, βI canβt breathe.βΒ
βDonβt care,β she mumbles into your shoulder before pulling back, βNice costume.βΒ
A bat onesie. Cheesy, but comfortable, and warm enough to battle against Hawkinβs autumn chill. Itβs even complete with a headband that has two small, perky ears attached to it, peeking out between tufts of your hair atop the crown of your head.Β
βThanks. Wait till you see the killer fake teeth I packed.βΒ
βEds will be pissed if your fangs are better than his,β Argyle notes as he starts to walk into the living room. You follow, Robin close behind, to find the rest of your friends all waiting.
A scary movie is already on the TV, a classic slasher revealed by the high pitched scream that rings out into the room from it. Thereβs a few indoor decorations about β plastic jack-o-laterns and fake webs that will no doubt give Steve hell when he tries to take them back down β and you can see a punch bowl on the counter by where Nancy and Jonathan reside.Β
And the man of the hour is lounging on the couch, a high mountain of pile already in front of him on the table as he munches on a family pack of candy corn.Β
βEddie, isnβt the candy supposed to be for trick or treaters?β you question teasingly as you make a beeline for him. His previous focus on the movie vanishes, full attention now on you.
Heβs dressed like a vampire. If the cape didnβt give it away, that small blood line marked from his lower lip in a shade of lipstick you would guess he borrowed from Nancy does.
βI am a trick or treater, sweetheart,β he retorts, popping more candy into his mouth for emphasis, βBesides, Harrington has full-sized candy bars.βΒ
βDonβt talk with your mouth full.β
βYes, maβam.βΒ
He snaps his jaw closed jokingly, the clicking of his teeth making you huff out a laugh as you collapse next to him.Β
That woodsy cologne is there, one youβre so happily familiar with these days.Β
Unlike Argyle and Robin, he doesnβt greet you with an overwhelming hug, or palpable excitement. His way of greeting is more subtle. His arm slowly lifts, going to rest on the back of the couch behind you, but quickly falling to your shoulders when you waste no time scooting closer into the space heβs opened up in his side.
You fit kind of perfectly. Like a void always meant to be filled.Β
βSo, Dracula,β you hum, warning your beating heart to slow from its racing when his palm cradles your shoulder farthest from him, βWhat are we watching?βΒ
Baby steps were a thing of the past for most of the group. They had become great leaps of faith after that fateful movie night. The way Argyle and Robin had crushed you was normal now. Passing touches and flirtatious jokes were regular between you and your friends. They had seen your boundary for what it really was, a roadblock, and bit by bit, they had broken it down.Β
Eddieβs hesitation isnβt because he can no longer touch you. His hesitation whispered of something more, something different, something still delicate. Just as delicate as the fragile wings of the butterflies in his stomach that fluttered to life every time you entered a room.Β
They werenβt new. And you still didnβt know they existed β that they had always existed. From the first moment heβd met you.
βOne of the Halloween movies,β he tells you, leaning down to keep the conversation more private.
You felt his breath on your ear.Β A new touch that happened more frequently now. One you sought after almost as vehemently as you had those first few points of contact.Β
βOh?β you play along, staying hushed, βHow fitting.βΒ
βVery.βΒ
βIβm surprised you didnβt make them put on a vampire movie. You know,β you cut off, and motion to his costume. You bump your knee to his as you do it, βGiven your attire.βΒ
βZee night iz ztill young,β he puts on an obnoxious accent meant to mimic Dracula himself, pronouncing all his βsβs as βzβs.
You only smile, wide and generous and soft and tender, before you lift a hand to punch at the flared collar of his cape. You donβt even hesitate, not even when your knuckles brush the side of his neck.
βPretty killer, right?β he jokes, trying to ignore the warmth flooding his cheeks.
βVery,β you hum in approval, hand dropping as you lean back into the heavy warmth of his arm around you. You almost reach the hand up to his bottom lip to trace that makeup there, slightly smeared and edges rugged already from his snacking, but you do withhold yourself at that line, βI like the makeup.βΒ
βYeah?β he lights up with pride, βYou know, I did the eyeliner all by myself.βΒ
You squint pointedly, leaning in just an inch closer to inspect the feathered charcoal on his waterline, βReally? Very impressive, Eds.βΒ
βStop flirting,β Steve demands as he leaves the kitchen, βYouβre going to give him a bigger head than he needs.βΒ
You both break apart slowly, letting space settle between you two and slowly fading back into the real world and out of that little bubble between you two. Eddieβs arm remains β his palm never leaves you, going so far as to give you a playful squeeze as his finger trails down your bicep.
A pathway of spring roses feels as though they bloom along that trail. Vibrant, full of life, open to possibility. When it came to you, Eddie had one Hell of a green thumb.Β
βStop ruining the fun, big boy,β Eddie looks up at your friend, poking his tongue out as his nose scrunches. Adorable. Painfully so.
Steve is dressed as Batman. His mask is discarded somewhere on the counter beside the punch bowl.
βWe have plenty of time for fun,β Steve waves off the comment, coming to stand in front of the TV with his hands on his hips, βAm I forgetting anything? I have candy for any kids that come knocking, weβve got punch thanks to Nance, I ordered our pizza-β
βYou better have ordered one with pineapple,β Eddie interrupts, tilting his head sideways in your direction, temple brushing against one of your fake ears, signaling how it was your favorite. You burrow yourself deeper into his touch.
Steve subtly ignores him, β-I have the big speakers set up if we wanna listen to any music in the backyard. Am I missing anything?β
Predictably, he wasnβt. Steve always thought of everything.
The last few months had been nice. Finally getting to enjoy Eddieβs touch had been more than you ever planned for, reveling in the way the boy was so gentle with you even as he finally gave in. Once he started, it was as if you both could finally breathe. A weight had lifted from Eddieβs shoulders just from the simple adjustment of now getting to sit beside you at every function, his bouncing knee always pressing into yours. It had become a silly tradition for him to offer to share that wild head of hair during scary movies, demanding if someone else tried to sit beside you during horror movies in particular that you needed him and his curls to protect you.Β
You had gone from yearning for touches, yearning for that contact, to your friends arguing over who would be indulged that night.Β
They had taken it slower than you thought you wanted (save for Robin), but in the end, it had all worked out. You didnβt freeze anymore. Your aversion to touch had slowly, slowly, withered away with each hug, with each clasp of their hands on you, with each casual cuddle session they pulled from you. You no longer felt like an anomaly. And it wasnβt that your friends had ever meant to make you feel like an outsider, but it felt like finally being let into a club youβd mourned being left out of for years.
The day that Eddie had grabbed your hand during a casual conversation amongst everyone while out for lunch, letting his thumb trail back and forth over your knuckles in a soothing motion, youβd nearly cried.
Something so delicate yet so telling. A quiet action of affection youβd spent so long telling yourself you couldnβt have. Back rubs during hugs, letting Argyle braid your hair in return, resting your head onto Robinβs shoulder instead of only vice versa. They were all things youβd denied yourself of for so long. You regret it, but you couldnβt change anything in the past, only the now.
And now, you had the boy who had first sprouted such affectionate want within you wrapped up against you, leaning into you for comfort as he started to ignore Steve again.
βWanna go out back and smoke while he mother hens?βΒ
He doesnβt have to ask you twice.Β
You both slip away out the back door unnoticed, a new banter sparking up between Robin and Steve being enough distraction to allow it. Eddie wastes no time digging into his jean pockets once heβs outside, throwing the cape out widely before he pulls out his pack of cigarettes.Β
βWant one?β he offers, flipping it open in your direction.
You just smile, shaking your head, βNo, thanks. I donβt smoke.βΒ
Youβd never really said that before to anyone in your group, only politely declining up until now. A small detail, but Eddie looks pleased to learn it all the same.
βHuh,β he curiously hums, pulling his own cigarette from the carton before tucking it back away, βI never knew that.βΒ
βIβve never really told anyone,β you shrug.
βIt is some big secret?β
βNope.β
βHmph.βΒ
This hum is muffled by the tip of the filter in his mouth, his hands now busy patting down his body for his lighter.Β
βWhat?βΒ
His lips struggle to stretch around the tip of the cigarette without dropping it, solely from how wide his smile is, βI like learning new things about you.βΒ
For every thing you had once spewed at Robin that night, Eddie had learned of you tenfold.Β
It was far past learning how your fingers fit between his or the smell of your perfume. Heβd wanted it all; to know the inside workings of your mind, to be privy to all of your beautiful thoughts. The softness set in stone inside of you bled far past what could be felt in your fingertips or the care that shook your hand when youβd brush back stray curls out of his eyes. It fed deeper into you, into parts of you that Eddie could spend hours exploring without once growing bored.Β
βYou say that like Iβm interesting,β you murmur half-heartedly, suddenly reaching out beneath his cape and tucking into his back pocket he could have sworn he already checked. His breath is the one that catches at your arm brushing against his waist from the reach, his body is the one that freezes up entirely just from proximity. A change of roles that you had never seen coming, but heβd always figured existed. You never understood the effect you had on him, and that was in part his fault.Β
You produce his lighter like magic.
βYou are interesting,β he insists as he plucks the lighter from you, flicking it three times to get a steady flame to burn the tip of his cigarette to life, βDonβt sell yourself so short, batty.βΒ
βBatty?β you snort, not moving away from him, even as he blows a thin and ghostly stream of smoke out of the corner of his mouth.
He can only shrug, wrinkling his nose, βYeah, I didnβt like it either. Had to give it a chance, though.βΒ
In the quiet solitude of Eddie nursing his cigarette and you watching the trees rustle with the last remnants of daylight, something sharper invades the soft space you two seem to brew whenever together. Between your innards that are gentle by nature, and Eddieβs silken attitude not only in actions but attitude towards you, the spaces occasionally left between you two were always something dulcet. Calm. Welcoming. Youβd come to discover that maybe, thatβs why youβd always yearned to burrow yourself so deeply into those spaces. It was a feeling of comfort and a feeling of home that you had always seemed out, but never found that fit quite as right as these moments.
βHey Eddie?β you ask aloud as he finishes off the cigarette, stomping it out on the ground with his boot.
βWhatβs up?β he answers, making no move to go back inside.
You always liked these moments alone best. From the very beginning. Even before he felt comfortable enough to step closer to you, shoulder to shoulder with you now. Heβs trying to squint and see what youβre finding so interesting in the array of colorful leaves in the distance, slowly being covered in blue shadows rather than golden light, without asking.Β
You liked that. You liked it a lot; the way he always seemed to seek out your perspective on things. βCan I ask you something?β
βYou just did-β
βFuck off,β your hand flies up, and smacks his shoulder. You never would have done that before. But you do now, relishing that contact even in the briefest of moments. The freedom to reach out and touch.
Once he stops laughing, clearly amused with himself, he turns to face you. Whatever he had been searching for in the trees is long gone, and your focus has moved onto him now, so itβs futile.
βAsk away, sweetheart.β
A deep breath for bravery, and youβre blurting out, βDid you really only avoid touching me when we met because... the othersβ¦ they told you not to?βΒ
He wasnβt expecting that question. The crease between his brows makes that clear. You almost take your thumb to it, try to smooth out the worry. But youβre not quite there yet. Maybe one day you would be.Β
Itβs not as loaded of a question as he thinks it is. Itβs cute to watch him assume it is, though.Β
βI mean,β he starts his words slowly, carefully, βI guess.β
βYou guess?βΒ
βI guess,β he repeats.
Your smile is sending him into a tornado of emotion. He almost curls his hands into fist, just as you used to do.Β
When you broke down your boundary, it had split a crack through his dam. He knows he can reach out and touch you. He knows youβll accept his physicality without complaint now. It doesnβt make it any less scary.Β
For the same reason you donβt press your thumb into his eyebrow crease β having a crush just makes you hesitate like that.Β
βIβm obviously a touchy guy,β he throws his arms out, aimlessly, and when they return his side, they almost nick yours. You wish they would brush yours, βButβ¦ between you and me, I always get nervous around pretty girls.β
The world slows. It doesnβt stop, it canβt stop for two youths who are trying to explore new and giddy feelings β but my God, can it slow to an absolute crawl, if only for the two of you.
βYou think Iβm pretty?β you tease, swallowing down just how much those words mean. You always have to remind yourself itβs worth it; being just friends is worth it now that youβve learned the exact brand of cologne he wears and recognize the weight of his arm around you.Β
βThe absolute prettiest,β he breathes out, βI always have. Even if they hadnβt told me to hold back, I would have- Hell, I still do,β the Autumn air makes him honest, makes him brave, βI am- I would be- I just- Itβs terrifying, the thought of fucking it up because you turn my brain toβ¦ mush.βΒ
Your eyes lift up to his forehead blanketed in his bangs, squinty and entertained, βYouβre telling me itβs all just soup in there right now?β
βThatβs exactly what Iβm telling you.β
Your friends are inside. There is candy to eat until your stomachs ache, and hugs to partake in until your bones have been crushed and pieced back together by threads of platonic affection.
Right now is anything but platonic. And it is time for something else to break, not your bones and not your boundaries. Something more.Β
βIβm pretty sure your hand on my shoulder when we first met would have ended my entire world,β he confesses, starting the first crack.
βYeah?β
βYeah. If you had hugged me every time you saw me, I donβt know if I would have ever found the nerve to leave my house.β
Another crack.
βAnd if I sat next to you every time we went out for dinner?β
βWouldnβt have been able to eat a bite, Iβm afraid.β
A spiderweb of cracks, all widening.
βAnd if I had laid my head on your shoulder during movie nights?β
βWhat the Hell is a movie?β he jokes, chuckling a bit nervously now, βWho knows? Certainly not me, certainly not when my favorite girl is curled up next to me.βΒ
One more crack, and the entire thing will finally shatter. Youβre begging it to shatter.Β
You bite your tongue on any remark about still being his favorite, because since that goddamn night, heβd never said Robin or Nancy were his favorites again. Never. Heβd meant it. You were his favorite.Β
βAnd if I justβ¦β you pause as you step forward, leaning in slowly, and it takes everything in Eddie not to turn and run as your lips brush over his cheek as you whisper, βKissed your cheek? Right here, right now?βΒ
He doesnβt respond, your lips press together and then press down.Β
It shatters with a resounding snap that must be heard across Hawkins. Across Indiana.Β
One moment, your lips are on his cheek, and the next, theyβre on his lips. He turns his head quickly before any doubt or nerves or roots can interrupt the moment.Β
Endless. Endearing. Warmth. Tenderness. Soft.
His lips are soft. So goddamn soft.
His hands are foreign things for a second, as if heβs in shock that heβd actually done it and kissed you. But they come back to life when your own lift to his neck, wrapping behind his neck and beneath the collar of that cape, pulling him in even closer to you.Β
He kisses you. And kisses you, and kisses you, and kisses you. Till youβre both dizzy and it doesnβt matter that the earth wonβt stop spinning long enough for you two to live in this moment.Β
It should be unfamiliar, especially to you, but it isnβt. Itβs as if the two of you have done this dance before. In another life, in another world, on another Earth far away from here. Your lips know his in this lifetime, and they will know his in the next β this first meeting only allows for a sigh of relief in the Universe, and in you.Β
He paused the kisses briefly, palms cradling your face with care and intention, βDo you know,β he places his lips onto yours one more time, as if fearful that spending too much time apart will let you vanish, βhow often,β another kiss, deeper this time, βIβve wanted to do this?βΒ
A final peck. A period to the end of a sentence that the two of you had taken your time writing.
βNo,β you laugh earnestly, fingers digging into the soft skin at his nape, reveling in the slip of his curls between your knuckles, βMaybe you should tell me about it.βΒ
βTell you about all the times?β heβs leaning back in, lips brushing against yours. Just a touch, but it shakes you to your core, βAll the times I wanted to touch you, hold you, kiss you?βΒ
You capture his lips in yours, unable to resist anymore. Youβve spent months resisting β his lips and kisses, his touches and brushes, his warmth and sunshine. Youβre done resisting.
βEvery,β you pull back and catch the glint in his eyes. Heβs done, too, the rubble of the shatter, βSingle,β you peck one cheek, βLast,β you peck the other, now rosey, βOne.βΒ
You finally kiss his lips again. Your fingers tug harshly on his curls, and his mouth falls open at the unexpected sensation. Instead of taking this any further and starting something youβd never want to end, you do the adult thing β you nip at his bottom lip, a bite of adoration that leaves him with a sting to remember.Β
βFuck,β he sighs out, chasing after you, but your hands press into his chest to keep him into place, βI- Sorry, was that too much?βΒ
βToo much?β you laugh breathlessly, shaking your head immediately. Once upon a time, it might have been too much. But now, it wasnβt enough. βNo such thing, not with you.βΒ
βCareful,β his hands came up to cover your fists balled into the front of his shirt, moving so that his cape brushes against your sides now, βIβm known to be quite a handful, sweetheart.βΒ
You snort and grip his shirt even harder. βGod, I sure hope so. Youβve been holding out on me, dracula.βΒ
βOh, have I?β
His smirk and your smirk are perfect mirror images of each other.Β
Steve harrington x fem!reader, 1.8k words, Steve is an adorable loser for his gf <3
summary: Everyone loves Steve's girlfriend, but he just wants a little bit of your attention for himself. Is that so bad?
It starts, as many things do, with Dustin Henderson.
Youβre curled on the corner of Steveβs couch, your legs tucked under his thigh while he flicks through TV channels. The doorbell rings, and before Steve can even mutter βIβm not home,β the door swings open.
βHey, is sheβ oh, there you are!β Dustin beams, dropping his backpack with a thud. "Hi!"
"Hi," you say back, grinning up at him, happy to see him.
He mirrors your smile. βOkay, so I need a second opinion on the naming convention for my new campaign NPC. βZargoth the Destroyerβ or βLord Malador of the Shadowed Valeβ?"
"Hmmm, I like Zargoth better. It's more intimidating. Plus, short and sweet, you know what I mean?"
Steve stares, remote dangling from his fingers. βHenderson. My house. A βhelloβ would be nice. An appointment would be better.β
Dustin waves a dismissive hand. βHi, Steve. This is important.β He plops down on the floor in front of you, effectively blocking Steve from your line of sight.
It doesnβt stop there.
Two days later, youβre helping Steve sort a mountain of mismatched socks that have just come out of the laundry. Weirdly, it's somewhat of a bonding experience, doing laundry together.
Robin lets herself in, her eyes landing on you like a spotlight.
"Oh, thank God you're here," she breathes.
"Where else would I be?" you joke.
She plops down on the bed, messing up Steve's organised sock piles. He sighs.
βMy date with Vickie. At Enzoβs. Itβs tomorrow. Itβs a real, sit-down, checkered-tablecloth kinda date."
You put down the polka dot socks you were holding to beam at her. "That's amazing, Robin! I know how much you were looking forward to that."
"It is amazing! But it's also a crisis!" She grabs your shoulders, her eyes wide. βWhat do I wear? Do I go cute? Do I go cool? Do I try for both and risk looking like Iβm trying too hard? And my hairβ can you braid it?"
Steve holds up two socks that are clearly not a matchβone black, one navy. "Hello? We're doing laundry. We were in the zone."
Robin spares him a haphazard glance. "This is important, Dingus." She turns back to you. "Please, I need you. I'm vibrating."
You can't help but laugh. "Okay, okay. I like your outfit now. It's chic, but doesn't look like you're trying too hard. And I can totally braid your hair, but I think it might look better down? Light makeup I can help you with, maybe a little eyeliner on your waterline. I have one I think'd suit you, it's in the bathroom."
Robin tugs on your hand, pulling you up to stand. "You're a genius."
Steve watches, helpless, as you're swept upstairs in a whirlwind of pre-date panic, then back down at his socks. "They're both dark," he mumbles to himself.
The true test of his patience comes during a Friday night movie marathon in the Wheelerβs basement. Youβre on the floor, leaned back comfortably between Steveβs knees, his fingers in your hair, scratching absently at your scalp. Itβs perfect. Itβs your spot.
The movie plays, and Steve is content, his world pleasantly narrowed to the familiar weight of you against him and the scent of your shampoo.
Then, Lucas slides over from his spot next to Mike. He looks desperate. "Hey," he whispers, his voice strained. "I need help. It's an emergency."
You tilt your head back to look up at Steve with an apologetic smile before turning your full attention to Lucas. "What's wrong?"
"I pointed out a zit on Max's face," he confesses in a horrified rush. "I wasn't trying to be mean! I just noticed it! I said, 'Is that a new zit?' and she... she hasn't spoken to me in two hours. She's just been giving me this death glare. What do I do? Do I apologise? Do I ignore it? Do I buy her nail polish? Is nail polish even an apology gift?"
You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing, but your eyes are sympathetic. "Oh, Lucas. Okay. First, do not buy her nail polish. That implies you're paying way too much attention to her appearance, which is the problem. Buy her new skateboard bearings, she mentioned she needed some. AndΒ definitelyΒ apologize. Say, 'I'm sorry, that was a stupid thing to say.' Keep it simple."
Lucas nods frantically, absorbing the instructions like they're a military briefing. "Got it. Thanks." He scuttles back to his spot, already planning his approach.
Steveβs hand has stilled in your hair. You feel him take a slow, deep breath behind you.
Before you can settle back against him, you catch Maxβs eye from across the room. She gestures subtly with her head towards Lucas and rolls her eyes, but you see the hurt in them.
You give her a small smile in acknowledgement. Mouth, 'he's sorry. He'll make it up to you.'
Then, Dustinβs head appears, blocking the TV. βOkay, one more question about the D&D character convention. If aββ
But Steve has had enough.
He leans down, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. His voice is a low, soft murmur, tinged with a vulnerability that makes your heart clutch. βHey, angel... can we get out of here?β
You twist to look up at him. In the flickering blue light of the TV, his expression isnβt annoyed. Itβs wistful. A little tired.
βYeah,β you whisper back instantly, without hesitation. βOf course.β
You gently extract yourself from his hold and stand up, reaching for your jacket. "We're gonna head out," you announce.
A chorus of groans erupts.
βWhat? Now?β Dustin whines.
"Yeah, I had a question to ask you!" Mike exclaims. "It's, like, life or death. I think the Chief's gonna kill me if I go see El againβ"
βYou canβt leave, I havenβt executed the apology protocol yet!β Lucas whisper-yells, panicked.
Steve opens his mouth, a familiar, defensive retort about how youβre not a UN negotiator clearly forming. But you step in before he can.
You smile, soft but firm, and slip your hand into Steveβs. βYou guysβll be fine,β you say, your tone gentle but leaving no room for debate. You turn your smile up to Steve, eyes warm. You give his hand a little squeeze. βI want some alone time with my boyfriend.β
The groans taper into scattered laughs. Max sends you a not very discreet thumbs up.
Steve looks down at you, warmth pooling in his chest. He gives you this look of such pure, dazed adoration it makes your heart skip. He doesnβt say a word. He just lifts your joined hands and presses a firm, grateful kiss to your knuckles, his eyes never leaving yours.
βYou heard the lady,β he says to the room, his voice light and full of happy energy. βWeβre off-duty. Emergencies will have to wait.β
He leads you up the basement stairs, the sounds of the movie and the kidsβ renewed bickering fading behind you.
The second the Wheelerβs front door clicks shut, sealing you both in the cool, quiet dark of the porch, Steve stops. He turns, and in the soft glow of the porch light, his expression is completely unguardedβall soft eyes and a tender, wobbly smile.
βCβmere, sweetheart,β he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. He wraps his arms around you and sways gently on the spot, his cheek resting against your hair.
βMy sweet, perfect girl,β he coos, the words a warm rumble against your temple. "You were so patient with them, solving everyoneβs problems.β
He pulls back just far enough to cradle your face in his hands. His thumbs stroke over your cheekbones with a reverence that makes you feel dizzy.
Heβs beaming at you, his eyes shining with so much affection itβs almost overwhelming. He leans in and peppers a flurry of soft, quick kisses all over your faceβyour forehead, your nose, each eyelid, your cheeksβmurmuring between each one.
"My smart girl... giving everyone life advice... always being so kind and helpful and perfect..."
He finally lands on your lips, kissing you slow and deep, a kiss that tastes like gratitude and awe. When he breaks away, heβs breathless, his forehead resting against yours.
βIβm gonna melt into a puddle right here on Mrs. Wheelerβs porch,β he whispers, his voice hoarse with feeling. "The way you handle them all, and then you justβ¦ you turn those big, beautiful eyes on me and sayΒ that? In front of everyone?β He lets out a shaky laugh, his nose nuzzling against yours. βIβm done for. Completely done for.β
He hugs you again, squeezing you tight and lifting you just an inch off the ground. βCβmon, my love,β he says, "let's go to my place. I just want to look at you for a while. Is that okay? I just wanna hold my girl and look at her.β
You laugh, the sound full of softness and affection for your sweet, adorable boyfriend. "It's more than okay. Take me home, please, baby. I'm all yours."
A soft, almost wounded sound escapes him and he hugs you impossibly tighter for a second, his face buried in your neck. "Oh, my heart. You're gonna kill me. You're so perfect."
Steve finally lets you go, but only to take your hand, lacing your fingers together in a grip that feels reverent. He leads you to the car, opening the passenger door for you with a soft, "In you go, gorgeous."
The drive to his house is quiet, but the silence is thick with a new, syrupy sweetness. He keeps your hand in his lap, his thumb stroking incessantly over your knuckles when he's not changing gears.
"Just look at you," he murmurs at one red light, his free hand reaching over to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. "You're so beautiful. I can't believe you're mine."
"I am," you remind him softly, leaning into his touch.
"I know," he breathes, like it's the greatest mystery and miracle of his life at the same time, somehow. "I know, baby. And I'm never letting go."
Once home, he doesn't even turn on the main lights. He guides you to the living room couch by the faint glow from the kitchen. He sits down and pulls you into his lap, arranging you so you're sideways, your legs draped over his, your head tucked perfectly under his chin. He wraps both arms around you, letting out a long, contented sigh.
"Here we go," he whispers, his lips against your hair. "Right where I wanted you all night. Just my girl and me."
You hum, a soft, contented sound as you melt into his warmth, all the busy energy of the night finally draining away.
Steve presses a kiss to the crown of your head. "You must be so tired, sweet thing," he murmurs, his voice a low, soothing rumble in his chest. "Taking care of everyone all the time." His hand rubs slow, comforting circles on your back. "My sweet, exhausted angel."
He leans down, his lips brushing your ear. "But you know what?"
"Hmm?"
He tightens his arms around you. "It's okay," he murmurs. "You can help whoever you want, baby. 'Cos when you're done taking care of everyone else..." He presses a fond kiss into your hair. "I'll be right here taking care of you."
Steve Harrington x fem!reader who has suffered a head injury [1.9k words]
summary: Of course Steve leaves you under Robinβs supervision for maybe twenty-seven-and-a-half minutes only for you to wake up after suffering a head injury unable to recall that youβre dating the biggest dingus from high school in your severely concussed state.
CW: hospital fic, brief mention of a fall and injury, Robin's POV so it's a little spirally, mostly fluff
Robin honest to God feels really, really bad and wishes she could take back her internal moaning and groaning about how she wished you would just wake up already and save her from this boredom because this is much, much worse.
Really, she should have just relaxed and been grateful that youβre still kicking it at all; head injuries are no joke. Still, unconscious people make terrible company.
But now she wishes she was merely bored again.Β
You see, a good friend β an average friend, even β mightβve responded to you waking up for the first time in over fifteen hours after suffering a head injury by saying things like oh, thank god youβre awake! Or, are you okay? How are you feeling? Do you want some water? Let me go get a nurse.Β
But maybe Robin isnβt a good friend because her immediate response to the sound of you shifting in your bed before blinking blearily up at her is βoh my god, thank god youβre awake. Iβm so bored. Also, Max said something really funny to Mike earlier and Iβve been dying to tell you.βΒ
You blink at her β not unlike a frog, if sheβs being completely honest, one eye closing before the other β with furrowed brows before your eyes flit towards the stark whiteness of your surroundings.
βHospital.β She explains at your confused expression. βYou fell. Big time. We thought you were dead at first. Steve was hysterical and wouldnβt let anyone touch you until Nancy called an ambulance. Heβs going to be so pissed that you woke up while he was gone.β Robin recounts with a nervous chuckle. You really did scare the shit out of her; out of all of them.
βSteve?βΒ
Robin misinterprets the confusion in your tone as she shifts her chair closer to you. βYeah, heβs been here the whole time; the nurses were not impressed, but he wouldnβt leave. Dustin finally managed to convince him to leave long enough to shower and change at least. We had to tell him he was starting to smell bad. He didnβt, mind you, but donβt tell him that.β
You blink at her again, this one less amphibian in nature. βSteve?β
βYesβ¦Steve,β she parrots, wondering how long the two of you might sit here volleying the man's name back and forth.Β
βAs in Harrington?βΒ
βNo, as in Steve Guttenburg from Police Academy,β she deadpans. βYes, Steve Harrington.β
βWhy on Earth would Steve Harrington care if I was in the hospital?β And Robin canβt even take the time to be proud of you for getting all of those words out together in a row when reality crashes down on her.Β
Now, Robin will admit that itβs a little shameful how long it takes her to realize something isnβt quite right. She probably could have β should have β assumed, seeing as you are currently laying in a hospital bed; nothing is quite right about a person hooked up to a heart monitor.
Of course, of course Steve leaves you under Robinβs supervision for maybe twenty-seven-and-a-half minutes only for you to wake up in your severely concussed state unable to recall that youβre dating the biggest dingus from high school, and have been for a while.
Why did Robin insist Steve leave? Why would she tell him she could handle this? Why does anyone ever trust her with anything ever?
Fortunately, sheβs saved from needing to find answers to those burning questions at Dustin and Steveβs return. Unfortunately, she has no time to answer your burning question (or warn a certain Steve of the current predicament) either.Β
βThe coconut ruins it,β Robin hears Steve argue with his mouth full as the two boys materialize in the doorway, both too wrapped up in whatever argument theyβre having to see the two occupants staring at them in bemusement and horror.Β
βThe coconut rui- the coconut ruins it!? Steve, the bar is coconut. Coconut is the fundamental component of it,β Dustin sputters.Β
βI just think itβd be better if it was, like, peanut butter or something.βΒ
Dustin scoffs incredulously. βThen you buy Reeseβs or a Bopper! Why would you buy an Almond Joy if you donβt like coconut?β
βI didnβt say I donβt like coconut,β Steve argues, looking at the teen as though he was an idiot. βI just meant it would be better if it wasnβt coconut.β
βYouβre insane.βΒ
Robinβs inclined to agree.
She clears her throat. βHey, so-β
βWhoa! Look whoβs up!β Dustin interrupts with a smile, Steveβs head whipping to the side to see you staring at them with wide eyes.
βWhoa, hey! Hey, hey hey hey, wow. Holy shit, hi baby. How long have you been up?β
βUh, not long,β Robin interjects, voice steadily rising in both volume and pitch. βListen, we-β
βHow are you feeling?β Steve continues as he abandons his coconut monstrosity on a rolling table and makes for your bedside, ignoring Robin and the pointed looks sheβs shooting at him. βAre you hurting? Are you thirsty?β
You go to respond but Robin beats you to it. βSteve, I-β
βHave you had any water yet? Robin, whereβs her water?β Steve continues, fussing with the blankets that have been untucked from your legs as his eyes flit around the room for the bottle of water heβd set aside for when you needed it. βWhy havenβt you given her water yet?β
βWe havenβt exactly had time, Steve. Listen-βΒ
βHave you called the nurse?β Steve asks, shaking his head before even waiting for a response. βDustin, go get a nurse.β
Dustin doesnβt hesitate before heβs jogging out of the room in search of a nurse.Β
βWhatβs Robin doinβ to ya, huh?β Steve coos at you as he perches on the edge of your bed and presses a careful kiss to your temple, flagrantly ignoring the way Robin is frantically waving at him and mentally screaming Earth to dingus!! βSheβs got terrible bedside manners, canβt even take care of my girl properly.βΒ
You turn your horrified gaze to Robin as though you dating Steve the Hair Harrington is somehow her fault (it is a little bit; sheβs the one who re-introduced you two, insisting he was a changed man since high school).Β
βSteve!β Robin finally shrieks, missing the way you wince at the volume as Steve turns to look at her like sheβs grown three heads.Β
βWell, itβs true! You didnβt even get her water, never flagged a nurse-β
βWe didnβt exactly have a lot of time before you two showed up,β Robin counters as Dustin returns.Β
βThe nurses are just doing a shift change, said someone will be with her shortly.β Dustin reports as he hands Steve a new, cold bottle of water for you.Β
βOkay, alright. Thatβs alright, yeah?β Steve confirms with you as he cracks it open. βAre you in pain? If youβre in pain, I can go tell them you need help now.β
Robin watches as you take stock of yourself before side-eyeing her. βIβ¦donβt think so.β
βYou donβt think youβre in any pain?β Steve asks gently, bending over slightly in an attempt to regain your attention. Robin finds her heart squeezing at how soft heβs being with you.
Your heart seems to do the same, eyes flooding with tears as all three occupants in the room tense at the sight.
βHey, hey hey hey, whatβs the matter, huh? Whatβs with the tears?βΒ
Robin stands. βSteve, I really-β
βAre you in pain? What hurts?β
βSteve-β
βWhat, Robin?β Steve finally snaps, turning towards her like sheβs a fly that finally landed on a lampshade after spending the entire afternoon bothering the shit out of him.Β
βShe woke up a littleβ¦β Robin pauses, looking towards your teary form as she considers how to explain this gently, βconfused.β
βConfused?β Steve parrots before turning back to you. βConfused how?β
βConfused as in she didnβt understand why Steve Harrington has been haunting her hospital room.β
Steveβs brows furrow as he considers you before realization dawns on his face.Β
The sound that escapes you in response borders a sob. Robin feels a little bit like doing the same.Β
βDonβt cry, honey,β Steve all but begs as he scooches closer towards you on the bed, one hand grasping yours and leaning his weight on the other as he rests it against the bed by your opposite hip. βHey, did Robin tell you about the wicked burn Max delivered to Mike earlier?β
Dustin perks up. βOh man, he got so red; worse when El started repeating it afterwards.β
βMike accused Max of purposefully turning El against him.β Steve agrees.Β
βAgain. Hey, when they get here, make sure to call Mike a-β
βI donβt want anyone else in here,β you interrupt Dustin quickly, wiping roughly at your face with the hand not currently occupied by Steveβs. βI donβt- itβsβ¦theyβre too loud.β
Robin laughs. βYeah, they are too loud. You cominβ around?β
You suck in a deep, shuddering breath and let out a noncommittal hum in response.Β
βOkay, no one else will come in here,β Steve agrees, gaze locked onto your face as he rubs his thumb along the back of your knuckles, cautious of the IV taped to the back of your hand. βDo you want any of us to leave?β
The question is innocent enough, though Robin knows heβs mostly asking you if youβd like him to leave.
You shake your head no, though, and give his hand a gentle squeeze.Β
βOkay,β he whispers, leaning forward to press another kiss to your head and humming at you in question when you lift your chin, obviously asking for a real one.
Steve hesitates, clearly concerned heβs not reading your queues right and wondering if youβre feeling at all more cognizant. Apparently, though, rushing your unconscious girlfriend to the hospital and being without kisses for nearly sixteen hours makes a man a little desperate, finding him ultimately pressing a cautious kiss to your lips anyways.
βYouβre okay, hm?β Steve murmurs into the corner of your mouth, dotting a few more kisses to your face before sitting up. βScared the shit out of me.βΒ
βMβsorry,β your whisper back.Β
βYeah, you should be. Heβs been insufferable,β Dustin comments, earning him a glare from Steve and a half-smile from you.Β
βYeah, yeah. Okay, thatβs enough out of you, wise guy. What the hell are you two still doing here, anyway? Shouldnβt you guys go alert the others that sheβs awake?βΒ
βAlright, dingus. Say less,β Robin sighs as she stands, Dustin playfully muttering about how he knows when heβs not wanted.Β
You pay them no mind, looking up at Steve shyly; it reminds Robin of when the two of you first started hanging out. Awkward, tentative, careful. Steve looks like heβs shielding you from the entire world with the way heβs leaning over your form, youβre looking at him like he might disappear if you blink for too long.
The two of you are disgusting; she loves you both so much.Β
Robin pauses at the door to take one last look at two of her favourite people, you bite your lip as you ask Steve a question that Robin canβt hear, he chuckles before replying, a little louder, ββcourse, sweetheart. You can have as many kisses as you want.β
Steve Harrington x fem!reader who he calls accidentally [1.9k words]
prompt: I called the wrong number and started talking about my life and you only interrupted me after a few minutes of me revealing some pretty personal stuff and now you're invested in my life troubles
find part two here
CW: swearing, Steve feeling particularly sorry for himself, reader and Steve know nothing about D&D and neither does the writer, no mention of upside down stuff, fluff/crack
Steve lets the door slam shut behind him with a resounding thud; the cavernous, lifeless space echoing the evidence of his loneliness.Β
He takes a moment β the briefest of things β to thank his pretentious, asshole of a father for his foresight on buying the most technologically advanced cordless phone [βweβre the first house on the block to own one, Stevenβ], because this is a pacing matter.Β
He barely pauses to hiss in pain β clipping his hip on the corner of the island β as he blindly dials Robinβs number on his quest for the fridge, ripping it open to expose a whole lot of nothing.
βAdd that to the list,β he mutters into the barren fridge as he tucks the phone between his ear and shoulder to reach for the carton of orange juice.Β
The line is ringing as he operates off of muscle memory, reaching for the cupboard for a glass and hesitating when he realizes that he lives alone and he bought the damn orange juice himself; he can drink straight from the carton without anyone here to snap at him for it.
But the spout is nearly to his lips when he remembers seeing Lucas doing the very same thing from this exact carton not two evenings ago and decides to ultimately reach for that glass instead.Β
Steveβs just taking his first sip when the line stops ringing, hardly an inquisitive βhello?β uttered before he launches into a soliloquy.Β
βIβm gonna kill him, Rob. I mean it; Hendersonβs ass is grass the next time I see him. You know what he said to me today? Let me tell you what he said to me. That twerp had the nerve to hitch a ride from me to RadioShack; said he needed some shit for whatever nonsense heβs up to in that mad scientist lair of his. And if that wasnβt bad enough, he spends probably twenty-seven minutes-β not quite, it was more like nine, which is still an absurd amount of time, thank you very much β-chatting up the employee at check out like Dustin himself was getting paid to do it before turning to me β to me, Rob! - and asking for the $17.50 that the bill came up to.β
Steve scoffs. βSaid I owed him from the arcade last week. As if I owed him seventeen-fif- Robin, in what world would I ever spend seventeen-fifty at an arcade? Whatever, fine. I gave him the cash for his purchase mostly so I could get the hell out of geek-city only to learn that I had to drive the kid to Eddieβs. Turns out they were having another one of their stupid game nights- no, sorry, campaigns. And you know what?β
Steve shifts the phone from one shoulder to the other before hoisting himself up onto the kitchen counter, feet swinging back and forth and hitting the lower cabinets with hollow thump, thump, thumpβs.Β
βI owed him from the arcade last week? What about the fucking gas money from the past, like, four years of driving those kids around the entire town? If anything, I should start charging them, plus interest! As if I didnβt just get home to my empty house to open my empty fridge because those twerps ate all of my food, and I canβt even drink the orange juice straight from the goddamn carton like the heathen I am because one of those heathens did the same damn thing just the other day! Unbelievable.Β
βSo we get to Eddieβs, right? Which is bad enough because itβs, like, a giant nerdfest. But I figure I donβt have anything better to do, you know? So, I went to get out of the car and Dustin hurriedly thanked me for the ride. So now Iβm sitting there in my car like a total loser basically banned from a geek-off that I didnβt want to be a part of anyway, thinkingβ¦what the hell?βΒ
Steve slides off the counter before taking practiced steps along the tiles of his kitchen; routes well carved into every odd tile from many-a-phone calls before.
βApparentlyβ Steve continues, flinging his hand away from his head as though pointing to some invisible answer to his dumbfoundedness βEddie says Iβm not allowed to join their campaigns anymore because I canβt get their, fuckinβ, I donβt know, lingo right. But hey! I just used campaign right, didnβt I? And I mean, what the fuck is a druid? Do you know, Rob? Does anyone know what a druid is? But apparently I have no respect for the art of D&D and bring the vibes down. Whatever that means.β
Steve lets out a sigh as he leans against the same edge of the kitchen island that left the bruise quickly blooming along his hipbone. βAnd listen, I know what youβre going to say, alright? Maybe if I didnβt immediately call them a bunch of nerds when I stopped understanding what the hell was going on, I would be invited to game ni- campaigns. But everyoneβs pretty quick to call me a dingus when I stop understanding too, okay? So, maybe, we shouldnβt be judging the student but rather the teachers, alright? Some Dungeon Master Eddie is; canβt even teach a reformed jock how to play Dungeons and Dragons.βΒ
Heβs officiallyΒ muttering now, Steve can hear it with his own ears. He groans and continues pacing.Β
βI donβt even want to play Dungeons and Dragons, Rob. Not really, I meanβ¦I mean sometimes it's nice just to watch Max rip Mike a new one every once in a while, you know? And I mean, I like pizzaβ¦and candyβ¦and thereβs always pizza and candy there.βΒ
The line is dead silent on the other end, completely out of character for Robin though Steve assumes sheβs simply letting him run his course on his current temper tantrum. God only knows how many of Robinβs own temper tantrums that Steveβs sat through; the woman sort of owes him at this point.
βOh my God, Rob. Itβs a Friday night and Iβm whining that Iβve been β not only uninvited, which would be bad enough, honestly, but β banned from Dungeons & Dragons night- Jesus Christ, the fall from grace is brutal. No wonder you guys are always laughing at me.β He rubs a rough palm across his face. βKing Steve did not fall off the throne, he was torn from it and the descent has been brutally humbling. Holy shit.βΒ
And then, Steve hears sniffling. No, snickering; heβs being laughed at.Β
βAlright, alright. Thatβs real nice, Rob. Kick the man while heβs down; classy.βΒ
βNo, I-β more giggling β-Iβm sorry. I- oh my God, seriously? All of this over Dungeons & Dragons?β
Thatβsβ¦thatβs not Robin. Thatβs not Robin at all.Β
βIβm- youβre not- who are you?β Steve manages, rubbing at his chest which β now that heβs taken a moment to breathe β feels raw.Β
βWell, I donβt know! You called me,β you snicker on the other end of the line. Steveβs nodding at you as though you might be able to see him trying to play it cool now that heβs just made an entire fool of himself.
βRight, right, yeah. βCourse, yeah. But- shit, yeah. Iβm sorry I- I mustβve dialled the wrong number, uh, you know, in myβ¦uh, fuck, in myβ¦haste.β
βHaste!?β You all but squeal in excitement. βOh this just gets better and better; what other words do you have in your vocabulary, king Steve.β
βOkay, alright. Iβm hanging up now,β Steve threatens half-heartedly, resigning himself at your bubbly beggings of no, no, no.Β
βIβm sorry, honest,β you placate. βThat sounds rough.β
Steve sucks in a breath as he runs a hand through his hair. βYeah? You sound real sympathetic. Which part read as particularly rough to you?βΒ
βAwe, come now, Steve. No man should come home to an empty fridge.β
βRight!?β Steve grabs hold of your tiny olive branch and gives it a shake, desperate for whatever crumbs of pity might fall upon him; heβs feeling particularly pitiful tonight. βI stocked that fridge like three days ago, babe-β the epithet falls from his lips involuntarily when he realizes he doesnβt know your name. Alas, heβs already embarrassed himself enough tonight, heβs not going to dwell on misnomers this far into his spiral β-there should at least be a block of cheese for me to, like, grate or something.β
βFor dinner?β
βFor something.β Steve agrees begrudgingly. This fall from graceβ¦
βWell thatβs just not right at all,β you tsk. βAnd after being banned from D&D at that.βΒ
Steve merely groans.Β
βBy the way, a druid is a nature-based spellcaster with shapeshifting abilities.β
Steve groans again. βOh God, youβre one of them.β
Your laugh is bright and sharp. βNot quite. I visited family for Thanksgiving and my younger cousin has a new, very intense special interest. Itβs all I heard about.β
βAnd you listened?β Steve asks in disbelief, sinking into his sofa as he wonders what kind of magic you wield in order to avoid going cross-eyed as nerds rant about their magic board game.Β
βWell, it beat listening to my uncles talk politics.βΒ
The two of you share a commiserative hum of agreement.Β
βIβll tell you what, Steve,β you say, and Steve finds himself sitting up in anticipation of what you might tell him. He wonders if itβs terribly weird to like the way his name sounds from your lips; he doesnβt even know yours yet. βIβve got a book called Advanced Dungeons & Dragons Players Handbook-β
βYouβve got a book?β
βWell, of course,β you say as though that makes perfect sense. βIt was what my cousin gifted all of us for Christmas.βΒ
Steve hums as though that clears everything up.Β
βYouβre, uhm-β you hesitate, and Steve finds himself leaning further into the phone as though youβre sharing a secret with him β-youβre welcome to- wellβ¦I could lend you my book, if youβd like.βΒ
Steve canβt help it, he laughs. Not at you, but at the thought of the first book he picks up after (barely) graduating high school being one about Dungeons and Dragons. βThanks, butβ¦Iβm not- well, Iβve never been very studious.βΒ
βOkay fine,β you proclaim, apparently having come to some conclusion, βweβll study together, then.β
βTogether?β
βRight.β
Steve laughs again. βYouβd sit with a stranger and study Dungeons and Dragons with him just so he gets unbanned from future campaigns?β
βWell, sure. Plus, I meanβ¦I kind of need to study for Easter, you know? Timothyβs going to expect me to have put in at least some time with his Christmas present.β
βRight, right. We wouldnβt want to offend Timothy,β Steve agrees.
βExactly.β
βI mean, he put a lot of thought into that gift for you.βΒ
You laugh again, and Steveβs sitting on his couch smiling like an idiot.Β
A few beats of silence pass between the two of you before you eventually break it. βDonβt worry, King Steve-β he groans at the use of his high school nickname. β-weβll have you D&D royalty in no time.β
βOkay, well, I donβt need to be royalty, just, like, invited would be nice.β
βConsider it done,β you declare. βItβs officially my New Yearβs resolution to get Steve invited to future campaigns.β
Steve eventually ends the call with a girlβs phone number, a girl who now has his phone number, plans to meet up tomorrow after his shift for his very first D&D study session, and a spring in his step as he moves to actually call Robin this time; he has some bragging to do.
Hi gorgeous I loved your steve harrington fics so much, please can i request a steve x dustins older sister reader where they tell dustin theyre dating and he's all like omg what do i do why are you dating my sister omg
hi hunny! so i was hesitant to write this cuz i was afraid of writing something Iβve already read a few times, so i changed it a tiny bit and ended up having a lot of fun with it so hopefully you still enjoy! ALSO: in my mind, Henderson!reader is technically a niece of Claudia's who she took in before she ever had Dustin, so she's always been Dustin's older sister and Claudia is her 'mom', but reader can look however you want her to!
Steve Harrington x Henderson!reader who get caught breaking Dustin's rules [815 words]
CW: fem!reader, mentions heavy makeout sessions, brief allusion to NSFW activities, sibling dynamics, crack/comedy
You have to admit that youβre starting to grow dizzy, eyes tracking your little brother's form as he marches to-and-fro before you and Steve, separated by only the low coffee table that houses your mother's magazines. You and your boyfriend are situated one whole cushion away from each other on the very sofa that you had just been caught making out on, both thoroughly chagrined.Β
You canβt help but feel a little guilty; you know itβs probably not easy for a kid when his all-time favourite person turned babysitter turned certified big brother starts dating his sister, but it really couldnβt be helped.Β
If all of the trauma bonding wasnβt enough, heβs got a great head of hair, big hands, and kind eyes. Who are you to say no when a guy like Steve starts showing an interest in you?
Still, whatever guilt you feel quickly morphes into mortification when Dustin halts his death march to stare at the two of you with his hands on his hips like a very disappointed father.Β
The loaded silence nearly does you in, but itβs Steve who breaks first. βListen, man, I-β
βShut the hell up,β Dustin barks, silencing Steve immediately.Β
βDustin, we-β you try instead, only to end up much the same way Steve had.
βThere are rules for a reason,β Dustin shouts, using his hands to emphasize both rules and reason. βItβs bad enough youβre dating my sister, I already put up with you making googly eyes at her on the daily.β
Steve lets out a scoff of offence. βI donβt make googly-β
βRule number one!β Dustin continues, using one index finger to point at the other. βNo macking on my sister!βΒ
Steve lets out a breath of surrender. βYeah, okay.β
βRule number two!β Dustin continues, adding a second finger. βNo groping!β
βMy hands were completely above board!β Your boyfriend protests.
βI wasnβt talking to you,β Dustin mutters bitterly, shame flooding your system as you sink further into your seat and tuck your guilty, wandering hands beneath your thighs.Β
βRule number three!β A third finger is added to the bunch. βDustin should not be accosted with the sight of-β
β-sight of his babysitter or his sister with lust filled eyes, yeah. We were there when you made the rules.β Steve finishes for him, leaning an elbow on the armrest and his chin on his fist to paint the perfect picture of peevishness.Β
βAnd yet I come home to find you sliding into third base on my sofa. I watch TV on that thing!β
βThat was hardly third base,β Steve scoffs in response.
βAny base is too many bases for me to witness!βΒ
You press the back of your hand to your lips as you fight the urge to laugh at your brotherβs shrill outburst.Β
βYou shouldnβt even be up to bat! You should be in the dugout! Quietly! Handing out water bottles and shit!β
βDustin, Iβm sorry,β you insist, finding that you really do feel badly about the whole thing. Most of all because it has ultimately found the three of you sitting here, having this conversation. If you hadnβt already had enough gates and portals and parallel universes to last a lifetime, youβd go so far as to say you sort of wish the couch would just swallow you up at this point. βI wasnβt watching the time and forgot youβd be coming home soon.βΒ
Dustin stares at you hard for a few beats of silence. βWhereβs mom?βΒ
βBingo.β
He lets out a dismissive huff. βYouβre lucky it was me who got home first.β
Steve β the idiot β snorts out a laugh. βPlease, your motherβs way more polite than you. Probably would have asked if we needed a snack.β
βSteve,β you hiss.Β
βWhat?β
βShut up.βΒ
βYeah, listen to your girl, man,β Dustin taunts.Β
βWell, Iβd like to but then this tiny dickhead dictator showed up and started yelling at us. Jesus.βΒ
βOh my god,β you groan as you lower your face into your hands. βThis is so not helping our case.β
Steve relents, shooting you an apologetic look. βOkay, alright. Iβm sorry, babe. Iβll stop,β
Dustin makes a theatric gagging sound. βEw, Harrington.β
βWhat!?β Steve shrieks, holding his hands out haplessly. βIβm not allowed to talk to my girlfriend now?βΒ
βItβs the eyes! Stop with the, the fuckinβ googly eyes, man! Itβs disgusting!βΒ
βI donβt make- what are you talking about? Googly eyes? What does that even mean?β
The two of them devolve into their usual hysterics, neither of them noticing when you stand from your certified timeout and decide to listen to music in your room without any googly eyes or tiny dickhead dictators.Β
Youβll make it up to your brother later; Golden Girls reruns and the tub of ice cream in your freezer perfect for appeasing the youngest Henderson.Β
And Steve will make it up to you later when he climbs through your bedroom window long after everyone else has fallen asleep.Β
( + read on AO3 )
β£ PAIRING: Father Jud Duplenticy x Art historian fem!reader (2nd person POV)
β£ THEMES AND WARNINGS: NSFW, Minors do not interact!!!! Religious themes, slow burn and mutual pining, angst, irresponsible sex (idk how else to call what happens here), fingering, hand job, oral (f and m receiving), grinding, (this is actually softer than the warnings imply).
β£ NOTES: Yeah when I saw that sweet priest on my screen, I just had to drop everything and write this; hope you enjoy! :)
β£ SYNOPSIS: God might be the flawed invention of an anguished humanity, but the moments you share with the priest who keeps challenging you feel like a touch of grace.
βFinding out their homily is boring is possibly a clergyman's second worst fear.β
The nave was silent before those wordsβcaught in the digestive inertia that often follows the hours after Massβits regular tiles aligned between vast swathes of light, splashing through colored glass.
You look up from your notepad, blinking, lugged from thoughts of a whole other nature.
βPardon?β
The first thing you notice are his eyes. A vivid, water-branded shade, like a stream running through woods or algae disturbing the low tide, bluish, not quite green, welcoming as a bed of moss.
βI know,β he continues, in this affable, lightly mischievous tone, βpaying attention during Mass can prove itself a challenge.β
It's how he says it, utterly divorced of the solemnity that shells others like him, not austere, not scolding, but like he's young enough to remember the occasional Sunday mornings: being pried out of bed, rammed into uncomfortably dapper clothing, just to fall asleep again on shellacked pews before the first psalms are even read.
βYou probably aren't the only daydreamerβbut it's unusual, to see one honest enough not to pretend.β
From his pulpit, overlooking the assembly, it was difficult to miss. Yours were the only eyes straying away from the altar, from the crucifix, from him. Oblivious to the words, glancing to the windows like a bored student in a stuffy classroom and giving that pen you're still holding a nibble every now and then. As the prologue of a hymn vibrated through the cool air and the congregation united in a broken falsetto, he wondered, what in heaven could you be scribbling about?
An embarrassed smile climbs up your lips.
βI have a confession to make: I didn't come for the liturgy.β
You readily explain, βI'm writing a paper about the stained glassββ and his eyes flare up, outpacing you.
βOh, you're that researcher,β he remembers, or feigns to remember. βIt's a relief. Here I was, ready to accept my sentence as a terrible bore.β
He jests, of course. Holding anyone's attention never seems to be an issue for himβfor better and, well, often times for the worst.
His hand extends forward.
βI'm Father Jud.β
His palm feels warm against yours. A little coarse, perhaps, and drier than it should, results of labor, effort, rinsing, and scrubbing. Something else too, under those knobbly knuckles, secrets of a life-lived, tucked beneath his skin.
Per custom, you offer your name back, along with a glib Nice to meet you.
βI wasn't purposely being disrespectful,β you clarify after the introduction. βIt's just, the light is perfect now, and the hours coincide withββ
He cuts you off swiftly, waving his fingers as if to cast out any awkwardness.
βYou don't have to explain. It really is rather beautiful here,β he concedes, those not-quite-blue irises traveling in the line of your gaze to the golden beams of the morning sun. βI like to sit in the nave when I can, just to watch the reflections on the lancet windowsβ¦β
He stops himself, clears his throat.
βI'll leave you to it. If you need anything, don't be afraid to ask.β
He pivots, ready to traverse the lane, carried by a prudent, discreet gait, shoulders just a little stiff. Leaving behind a whiff of clean soap, clinging to the dark curls of his hair.
You can't help but call back to him, just as he's about to cross the fourth row of benches.
βWhat's the first?β
Stopping in his tracks, he blinks, slightly confused.
βMmh?β
Your pen clicks against the pad.
βYou said being boring was a clergyman's second worst fear. What's the first one?β
His uncertainty melts into a quizzical grin. Boyish, slightly enigmatic, almost elf-like. Whatever is about to come out of his mouth, you think, it might not be the truth. Aren't men of God forbidden to speak lies?
βCatching altar boys drinking the communion wine, probably,β he hums, humorous.
You can't help but smirk in response.
βHappens a lot, I gather?β
His head gives a light shake, a smile drawing dimples in his left cheek. Quite the smile, too. Strongly curved parentheses framing his mouth, warm, oddly familiar. Like an echo of other smiles, of a beloved childhood friend's, a nurturing uncle's, or a favorite cousin's. You can see why parishioners would trust him. It's the kind of grin that teases ease out of people, a desire to confide. Who knows what anyone else would do, with such a gift of a smileβperhaps it's a relief this one chose the cassock.
βGood luck with your research,β he amiably wishes, before making his way to the sacristy.
You don't think of the priest again until a few days later.
Timidly knocking on the very same door Father Jud disappeared through upon the first day of meeting him. You're looking to borrow a pen after forgetting or losing yours, that overchewed lucky charm.
The sacristy is a drab room, smelling stale and a little damp, a mixture of unaired textiles, varnished wood, burnt crackers, and, oddly, the faint, acrid afterscent of cigarettes. He's alone in there, answering your knock after a short beat. Eyes a little glassy, possibly preoccupied. He evulses any sign of aloofness as soon as the hinges creak, inviting you in, asking if you'd like some coffeeβhe just made some. Your eyes wander around while he fusses about. The preparation room is encumbered with heaps of stuff: mismatched teacups and glasses, markers missing their caps, books with worn-out covers, and a crumpled altar linen stained a deep burgundy red, awaiting to be salvaged.
He notices the way you examine the surroundings.
βThis isn't all my doing, by the way,β he says about the mess. βNearby clubs and activity groups in the parish meet up here for the time being. It's a little, ugh, modern.β
βI'm not judging.β
He invites you to sit and slides a ballpoint pen in your direction, along with a cup of steaming coffee. You contemplate his knuckles as he moves, just like you did last time. He has beautiful hands.
Fidgeting with the pen, you raise the drink to your lips.
βWhat is it you study, precisely?β he asks eventually, finally sitting down in turn.
You swallow before you reply, voice croaky from the heat of the beverage. It's awfully bitter.
βReligious iconography.β
The study of images and symbology in Christian art would be the complete phrasing, but that's just too many words. You always mechanically deliver the shortened version, used to people dropping the subject as early as it is socially authorized to do so.
His gaze shifts, head tilting, cooing out a soft βOhβ.
The topic could've ended here. It doesn't.
He understands your language.
It's simple, because it is his as well.
When he inquires about the figures in the colored glass, the ones that hold your academic interest, it's with an awareness that eludes the profane. Scenes of the Life of the Virgin Mary, Saint Catherine with her wheel, Mary Magdalene's river of flaxen hairβhe knows them all. Of course he does. He interrogates you on the specimens exhibited in the aisles, details, features he could've missed. The shape of a leaf, a certain hand gestureβall those small things with meaning, locked in time, awaiting to be read, rediscovered. He offers you the same incandescent smile you've already seen him wear on that first day, stating that he'll need to go take a closer look when he can.
When you ask him which artist was commissioned for the crucifix, with an interest translating your admiration, he is struck, briefly, with the sin of pride. Glancing down to his mitts, marked from the woodworking. Even considering not telling you.
While he ponders, you notice the dark ink, its filigree-thin contrast on his skin, peeking out of his collar. A most unexpected attribute for a priest.
After you tease him, calling his silence an unfair act of gatekeeping, he surrenders the secret at last. You ask how he made the heart of the figure shine, this otherworldly glow that struck your pupil last morning.
There's a story behind that Christ sculpture. One he doesn't wish to share, for now.
So he tells you about the theology of light instead. About the ancient belief, constructed centuries ago by another holy man, conjecturing light as a divine messenger, its passage carefully thought and built into the architecture of churches, through refined windows, roses, translucent glass. Light as a means to exalt devotion in the hearts of the congregants. Light reaching through, the open palm of God.
ββ¦ Which is why it's so natural, I guess, to sense His presence in places like this,β he gestures to the doors leading back to the heart of the church. βStill, I'll admit, I find God just as perceptible in less consequential things.β
βSuch as?β
βOh. I don't knowββ he chews on his cheek, suddenly bashful, ββsomeone's laughter. Moonshine on a pond. A cat galloping to greet you. I like to think all those have a touch of holiness to them.β
βFinding beauty in the mundane isn't the privilege of believers,β you point out, serious, mildly prickly.
He doesn't pick up on the drop of hostility straining your toneβif he does, he hides it well, or perhaps it simply doesn't bother him.
βYou speak of beauty, while I talk of faith. But I agree with you. Rejoicing in His creation is not entitled to Christiansββ
A knock on the door startles you both, pulling you out of the depths of your conversation. He has lost track of time, glancing at the clock with mild fright. A soft voice pushes through the door, calling for the Father. He quickly ushers you out, with a choice of words and manners devoid of rudeness that almost make you feel like the decision to leave was yours all along.
Priests, you soon learn, are even more sought after than doctors.
This priest, at least.
Father Jud knows he can't fix people. He cannot erase what has been done to them, what they have done to others, what they will do to themselves. It's a bittersweet certainty. Neither his hands nor his words are a cure. But they can be a salve, a balm. Soothing, bringing quiet in the noise, and an uncomplicated, unfastidious incarnation of love. His presence besides members of the community is stable, constant. It doesn't ask for anything in return. That's where he finds his purpose.
After a week or so, he grows used to the sight of your hunched posture in various spots of the church, concentration mistreating your spine.
He knows you're not a convert. Has known ever since he spoke to you in the sacristy.
But one day, you manage to stun him a little.
It happens a little before noon.
The rustling of your springy step resonates behind him, right after he's accompanied a parishioner back to the entrance of the church, a recent widower, still grief-bound and numb to the roaring of life around him. Father Jud whispers to him, βCall me when you need, I'll always answer,β squeezes his shoulder, watching him leave. The door shuts with a loud clangor.
He turns to look at you, your bag handle slung across your shoulder, a little sleepy-eyed, with ink-spotted hands.
After some meaningless small talk about the weather, you stifle a yawn.
βI've always found it a little ironicββ you comment, peering to the doorway, ββhow one can speak to a priest and safely expect an answer but not receive the same from God. He's arguably the most important aspect of this religion. Yet the priests are the ones who listen and offer direct guidance.β
You're always so immersed in your task, he never thinks you might be paying attention to anything else, least of all his own endeavors. But you see the people who huddle in church with the hope of speaking to him, presenting him their woes for some, seeking company void of criticism and judgment for others. He contemplates you with a hint of uncertainty, intrigued by what you might be getting at.
βCould it mean some priests are more important than God?β
There it is, expressed with the muttering tone of hypothesis.
Father Jud stands silent. A brief frown, the slightest show of his stupefaction. There's much he could say, to refute your wandering supposition, but there's no time for him to articulate his thoughts.
βSorry.β Your wince seems sincere. Then, with a quieter inflection, βIt's probably blasphemy, to say this in a church.β
βWe'll simply hope He was busy listening elsewhere when it happened,β he comments, in a friendly attempt to brush the matter off.
You chuckle at the not-so-funny statement, apologetic and amiable again.
From then on, your path crosses his more often. On your breaks, seemingly aspiring for a chattier counterpart to those silent figures occupying the windows and your attention most of the time. Announcing yourself through an excessively formal βHello, Fatherββsolely for the impish joy of making him respond with that peculiar smirk, as if asking you for a little less dignified stiffness. Cordial isn't the word, to define your chats. You seldom take him by surprise now, the way you did that last time, but you enjoy this, the small jabs, curious as to how he'll react. He's not interested in fighting you on the subjects you present to him, never losing his temper, never curt or chafed in his speech, even when he disagrees with you.
And Father Jud and you disagree on many things.
But your world touches his nonetheless; you with the factual eye, probing the memory of civilizations past, their beliefs, their stories, and him, tasked with plucking out what matters from it, perpetuating it, weaving peace or hope with fragments of the myths. You open the past to decipher it; he is a vessel of that past and its ageless promise all in one, its safekeeper.
Religion seems archaic to you. Wasteful in this modern age, when solutions can be found elsewhere, easy replacements for the voice in the sky, rendering God obsolete. Therapy in lieu of confession, science supplanting miracles.
Father Jud giggles when you tell him all this, one late evening. You're so used to speaking to him in the safe constraint of the church, you're a little taken aback to find him sitting in the local bar, deep in conversation with the patrons, local parishioners. Basking in this meek, cordial radiance you cannot help but envy. There exists a roughness to his features, not quite pugnacious, but an edge, brash, slightly cutting. It's there, always, oddly balanced by the earnestness in his eyes, and that smile he greets you with, his gift, an invitation.
So he laughs upon receiving your theory. Not a mocking laugh, but the modest, resigned snicker of one who has heard this speech before. You're not the first skeptic he meets with such a contemporary stance.
βIt's a pragmatic view. But don't you think it reduces faith to a simple tool? Something utilitarian, transactional?β
βStill, you have to admit it's a little irrational. Worshipping somethingβSomeoneβwho isn't really there.β
βWhy are you so sure He isn't?β
βHow do you know He is?β
He doesn't get defensive about your rebuttals. Doesn't behave like he's arguing with you.
βThat's what separates usββ he declares softly, luminously holding your gaze; and though he uses the term separate, it stands more as a request to get closer, a tug at your own mind, asking for permission to mirror it with a different perspective, ββI'm not interested in material proof of God's existence. You're looking to rationalize it, to explain it, but faith demands to be felt, not thought.β
The bar's prattle quiets down around you as the minutes slide by, and you're both still huddled near the counter, entangled in the exchange, slightly tilted towards each other, like conspirators. Father Jud doesn't touch his glassβor barely; it simply sits there like an ornamentβand he's talking to you about religion and philosophy, briefly invoking the writings of Pascal, Kierkegaard or Kant, who stated that God could only be touched through faith and not the rational mind. He doesn't sound pretentious; that's the true miracle.
βI had no idea they taught Kant at the seminary,β you notice, sipping on your own drink, trying to forget the chemical warmth creeping up your face, lodged in your limbs.
βI'm absolutely not an expert,β he confesses, emphasis on the not, the tip of his index finger following the rim of the glass. Your eyes fall to that tattoo again, clasping the side of his neck, the tip of an image you can't quite make out. He catches you staring, forcing you to avert your attention. You look down your glass, cheeks flushed. ββ¦ But I find it best to come prepared,β he finishes his sentence, with a slant dimple in his cheek, leading you to believe he knows what you were briefly focused on.
βPrepared against who?β you joke, covertly changing the subject. βThe hordes of heretics?β
He holds a quaint expression, half-grinning, half-pursing his lipsβhappens each time he feels you coming at him with some hidden scalpel, ready to poke his mind. He's never met anyone as intent on dissecting him, on rattling what composes his box of thoughts.
βI already know you don't believe in God.β He hums, not in an accusatory toneβhe never does thatβit's the simple statement of a fact. βWhat holds your faith then?β
Your fingers drum an imaginary tune on the sticky counter.
βHow do I answer that? Like some five-year-old child, that I believe in love and friendship?β
βWe all believe in something, don't we? Even the cynical and down-to-earth. Love and friendship aren't such silly concepts to put your faith inβ¦ Five-year-olds are wise like that sometimes.β
He simply has an answer for everything.
The next day, back at church, you inquire about his favorite passage from the Bible.
He already knows how critical you are of the good book. Many historians are. The magic evaporates as soon as they walk backstage, armed with the analytic eye, pulling out the magnifying glass to see the seams loosely coming apart. Ideas redacted by ghosts who arranged and rearranged traces of the divine in order to fit dogmas of their antiquated times and corrupted spirits.
The word of God, tainted by the hands of man.
βThere's plenty,β he muses. βIt's hard to just pick one.β
βIndulge me.β
He has a way of looking at you when you ask him questions like this. Flushed but mellow, like you're a small frog perched on the tip of his shoe that he isn't quite sure how to safely nudge back onto the grass without harming.
He scratches the thin stubble on his cheeks before picking a Bible out of a deranged pile of liturgical texts stacked on a table in the sacristy.
The volume smells of apricot jam. Ochre, child-like fingerprints color some of its pages.
He opens it, taps an underlined paragraph with his thumb.
βHere. It's a nice one.β
He relaxedly pushes the Bible between your hands, digits brushing yours during a fleeting instant. Your eyes scan over the first sentence, shooting a puzzled glance at him next.
βRead it. Trust me.β
On this request, he leans against the wall near the window, hands joined in his back, hips relaxed in a stance that's almost graceful.
With knitted brows, obedient for once, you begin to read aloud.
βLove is patient and kind; it is not jealous or conceited or proud; love is not ill-mannered or selfish or irritable; love does not keep a record of wrongsβ¦β
He watches your lips move, your voice shaping the verse he has read and reread himself countless times before. Focused on how you might accentuate one word and not another. Rediscovering the text through your own exploration.
βThere are gifts of speaking in strange tongues, but they will cease; there is knowledge, but it will pass. For our gifts of knowledge and of inspired messages are only partial; but when what is perfect comes, then what is partial will disappearβ¦β
You briefly look up to him. He seems caught in the flow of the sentences, reflective, as one would listening to a piece of music they grew up with.
βMeanwhile these three remain: faith, hope and love; and the greatest of these is love.β
After a lull, you inhale deeply.
βAre you showing me this because of what I said yesterday?β
The Bible closes shut, pushing towards your nose delicate aromas of the lingering sweet snack some child must've forgotten between the chapters.
When you gesture to give it back, he shakes his head lightly.
βKeep it. Hard to believe, but I've got a few more copies lying around,β he playfully points out.
Before you disappear, through the slim gap of the door, you hurriedly tell him:
βYou're right. It is a nice one.β
And so you're gone, too fast to catch satisfaction tinging his cheekbones.
Father Judd anticipates your conversations. A brand new habit, casually slipped into his daily schedule. He likes the way you skip up to him, tapping gently on whatever lies nearest each time to announce yourselfβhe startles easily when you don't, it seems. You're not sure if he realizes how good he is at picking little truths out of people. Effortless and lenient while doing so. The spell works on you more than once, shrouds you in comfort, closeness, understanding, and you fall silent mid-sentence after a while, offering him a quizzical look, admitting, I see what you've done here.
You turn the tables around when you can. Asking him about books he's read, where he lived in New York, how he found his vocation, if he picked up carpentry as a result of it. People often react a certain way, with pinched unease, when he tells them about what happened when he was seventeen, the event that led him down the path of the church. It's something he speaks about with a disarming deliverance. Wearing his heart on his sleeve.
Inevitably, your discussions will turn to God. When it happens, he wonders how you'll attempt to duel him this time. It's a one-sided fight, if anything. Perhaps you perceive this as a joust, a game of chess, most frustrating to you, since your opponent doesn't move any of his pieces, simply describing them instead. In his eyes, this isn't about winning or losing or displaying any sort of mastery in rhetoric. It's simpler, so much simpler. A friction of minds, invigorating him. Galvanizing his faith.
At night, brushing his teeth, reading, or lying in bed, he'll think of those dialogues, replaying them, wondering how he should've said this and not that, could've formulated a conviction more eloquently, afraid of being misunderstood.
You creep up in his prayer one time. Another after that, then a third. Your name blossoms into a recurrent sound on his tongue.
βI didn't know priests went to confession too.β
It's the middle of the afternoon, the ninth hour, and you're both sitting outside, under the skirts of fussing, ominous clouds. He's taking a break from his upcoming homily while you escape the claustrophobic grayness overflowing the transept. A most delightful form of procrastination.
βOf course,β he confirms. βWe sin just like everyone else.β
βSounds superfluous at best,β you grunt. βWhat could a priest possibly have to atone forβ¦β
The sentence comes out much more noxious and condescending than you'd hoped. It rings through your ears like a shrill heckle, making you shake your head, irritated by your own behavior. It's unbearable; you don't even like the people who talk like that, like they know better and aren't interested in rebalancing what they've taken for granted.
βI'mβ¦ That sucked. Forgive me.β
He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His expression hidden from you.
βDon't fret it. I've received meaner punches back in my day.β Spoken like he's verging on his hundredth year of life.
You take advantage of the fact that he can't see you. Gazing at the nape of his neck, where little dark locks gather and swirl, bouncier than apostrophes. You want to reach forward, want to touch them. And his shoulders, how they always seem just slightly hunched, like his body's constantly trying to apologize for taking space, for standing just a little too towering in comparison to others.
βHow do you do it?β you ask gently. βNothing ever seems to bother you.β
He proves you wrong immediately. Swiveling, his eyes shooting to meet yours, brows tense, as if you'd just proclaimed your decision to get baptized.
βIs that what you think?β he asks, incredulous. βThat nothing bothers me?β
Just as abruptly, the skies tear open with a rumble.
Pudgy drops crash onto the grass, maculating the stone bench, licking your faces and limbs. He pushes a suspiciously spontaneous curse word into the dampening air, and while you stifle a laugh, you both dishevelledly run back to the church porch.
Petrichor penetrates the breeze, dispersed out of muddy grounds, fresh and nostalgic. From the refuge under the lintel, Father Jud inhales the scent deeply. Brushing himself off that water still speckling his hair.
You remember a cluster of words he used your first week here. God's presence in the inconsequential. You wonder, looking at him, if that's what he's doing now, watching God through the lincel of scintillating water, shrubs changed into jewels by drizzling alchemy; all of it hiding an everlasting, mystical love.
βI've thought about what you said last time,β you dare to speak, pulling his attention to you. βWhen you asked what I believed in, if not God...β
Your hand whips the air softly. Gathering your words or reaching for something otherworldly and transcendentalβhe isn't quite sure.
βThe church is perfect. The sculpturesβthat Jesus effigy you made. The colored figures in the glass. They're perfect, so we don't have to be.β
Your fingers run over the knotwork mimicking foliage that decorates the door.
βAnd they're all man-made things. I suppose I believe in that, you know? Thisβ¦ ability, to transcend our own nature. To make things better than what we are. You'll say that it's God, of course; I wouldn't even know how to name it exactly. Maybe it's inspiration. Or hope. It doesn't matter. I believe in it, whatever this is.β
You can see the weather flicker in the millpond of his irises, the brief moment it lingers on you. Father Jud turns away at last, and you both stand without another word, watching the rain, listening to its soft pitter-patter.
He steps closer to you. You almost miss it. This guarded move, one prudent step. The skewed shadow his body casts on the uneven ground blends with yours. Right hand gingerly stealing up to your face, attentive not to startle you. Fingers trembling.
You close your eyes.
The pad of his thumb catches the raindrops lingering on your lashes. Featherlight. Gliding down, he wipes the water off your cheekbone, an imperceptible stroke.
As daintily as they began, his knuckles recede. Hand tugged back to his chest, splayed on his sweater-clad chest. Like it's trying to erase itself of what just happened, this surreptitious incident.
βI thinkββ, he grasps for a proper sentence. βI thinkβand I mean this withβ¦ the utmost regardβ¦ It would be best if we didn't speak, for some time. Anymore.β
His stammered words fall with the same staccato as the rain, skittish, disorienting.
You feel lightheaded in a bad way. Your mouth opens, but he stops you with a raised hand, a broken imitation of a Christ-like open palm, the gesture of blessing.
βNoβdon't.β
Those eyes, the same color as rain battered grasslands, quietly begging you.
βDon't say you don't know what I'm talking about. Please.β
His arm drops back to his side.
βYou're welcome to finish your work. But I'd be grateful if you justββ he sucks in a sharp breath, ββstick to that.β
He leaves you there, with your mouth agape, petrified, while he furiously scurries off in the rain. Piercing through the line of trees towards the rectory, paying no attention to the gushing downpour. Miserable and lost and a little in love with you, sparked with that same incomprehensible fondness he keeps for the scent of freshly cut pine wood, the stained glass that has captivated you, or that verse from Corinthians he has committed to memory and heart.
Night falls, and with it comes anger. A small amount of it directed at God.
He wants to punch something, blame someone, he isn't sure who, maybe himself.
Mostly himself.
His fists clench and unclench. How did this happen? Why did this happen? It crept up on him like a vicious cold. Now there's no sweating out the fever.
That following week, though you never found the chance to make the promise, you keep to what he has asked of you.
Your eyes lurk in before you pass the narthex, checking the church pews, ensuring yourself of his absence. You do this every time you enter.
Five more days before you fly home, leaving Chimney Rock for good. It can be done. You can manage.
It's the last stretch of the morning, an indolent, sluggish hour. People are more concerned with what they'll have for lunch than whether they should come to church light a votive candle.
A purposely picked moment.
Which is why you're not supposed to run into him. Not while turning the corner to reach the path, nearly sent reeling from the blow of the collision. Maybe it's God's nasty sense of humour. The strong wall of the northern flank of the church eats you both in its shadow. Too bad it can't make you disappear.
You both stand, facing each other, like future roadkill trapped in car lights. Not sure which is which.
Father Jud's under eyes bloom a mean purple, stains upon his wan complexion, signs he hasn't slept at all. His trousers are crumpled, a pale powder, thinner than dust, smudging the fabric. His sleeves are tucked up to his elbows. There's another tattoo, on his forearm, one you hadn't noticed before.
Taking a harsh breath.
βI'm just leavββ
Your shoulders are smashed against the sturdy stones.
He hasn't shaved, his stubble grazes your cheeks when he kisses you. A scattered, almost painful collide of mouths and teeth, stealing what remained of air in your lungs. His clothes smell of the eternal white cotton soap, but his body exhales something arboreal, musky; of timber and metal mixed with sweat. His fingers grip your shoulders, slide up the side of your neck, nails scraping your jaw.
It's too early in the day, to be this drunk on someone's touch.
The buckle of his belt etches its harsh outline in your waist while your fingers grip his back, exhorting him closer. His tongue pushes yours and against all reason and dignity, you moan into the kiss.
A cool current.
Your bodies separate.
Your lower lip hurts. And that spot on your elbow too, abraded by the stone you're still leaned against.
Father Jud's eyes are still fixed on you. On your lips. His own now crudely reddened, his pupils shot with an impossible shine. Holding one hand slightly lifted, like someone realizing they've just shattered a porcelain vase.
For a split second, in between raspy breaths, it seems like he's about to say something to you. Eventually, his eyes flicker to the tufted grass. Only capable of murmuring a flimsy βI'm sorry.β
It rings in your ear like an insult.
You're the one who flees this time. Pissed off and muddled with humiliation, damning the church, its windows, God, but most of all the priest.
Five days, and you'll be going away for good.
Five days later, you've finished scrubbing the tiny cottage you've rented for the duration of your stay. Keys awaiting to be returned, laundry folded, your almost done-and-packed suitcase slumped in the path between the open kitchen and the living room.
Ponderous clouds throng the sky outside your windows, drowning all last remnants of blue. You watch as rain sinks into the sidewalk, splashing the quaint gardens of the neighborhoods, ready to swell into a storm.
There's a quick thumping on your door.
Glancing through the curtains cloaking the doorlight, you regret moving at all once you recognize the willowy silhouette standing on the front steps.
You could, of course, creep back into the home, feign your absence. But he knocks again, and for some reason, pretending you've ceased to exist isn't an option anymore.
The locks turn with a melodious clatter. Door sliding open just a little, enough to frame you in the thin gap, almost like you don't want him to see where you've lived during the past weeks.
βHello, Father.β
Your tone isn't formal now, nor incorrigible like it used to be, when saluting him. It's just a bundle of neutral words.
βHi.β
He appears a little sounder than the last time you saw him. Ironed shirt and pants, not sawdust-strewn anymore; the clerical collar shining like some ironic lighthouse in the sea of all black. Father Jud licks his lips, his thumbnail scratching the handle of his umbrella.
βI was hoping to talk. Can I come in?β he inquires.
βI don't think that's a good idea.β
He tries to speak again, but you're quick to cut him off.
βLet me put this in better terms: I'm not interested in being the source of anyone's guilt.β
βThat'sββ he stammers, ββthat's fine, and I respect it. It's justβI biked here, but now it's raining cats and dogs, and I don't think it'll stop until the nextββ he looks around, assessing the flooding menace, ββhalf-hour, or something.β
βA half-hour isn't that long.β
In the murky pond of his eyes, you spot a flotsam of distress. There's something heart wrenchingly winsome about him. Always has been. Especially now, spindly silhouette with shoulders dotted in rainwater, that poor carcass of an umbrella hanging over his head.
Charity seizes you by the scruff.
This is a mistake, whispers the seraphim on your shoulder.
βFine. One cup of tea.β
βThank you,β he sighs in relief.
He's standing in the middle of your kitchen. Sheepishly glancing around, unsure what to do with himself. You've refused his helpβit's just boiling water; doesn't take four hands and two brains to conjure up.
βAre you leaving?β he asks upon noticing the sulking suitcase, still stuck in its corner.
βYes.β
He marks a pause.
βYou've finished your paper already?β
You hum, meaning no. Clumsily rummaging through the cabinets, wondering where you've left the last box of decent tea bags.
βI don't have the proper documentation here; I'll finish at home.β
Another way of stating you haven't mustered the courage to walk back into the church at all. All this, just to have him directly seek you out at home. You wonder if his scent will linger long in the room, after he leaves. You never thought cotton could smell so heady.
βPlease sit down,β you mumble. βYou're hovering, it makes me queasy.β
He pulls up a chair to the kitchen table, its feet scraping the linoleum.
βI hope you haven't been avoiding the church because of what happened.β
Discerning, he certainly is. Always so frustratingly discerning. That's a trait the angels weren't stingy on, while bringing it to his crib.
You smack the spoon drawer shut. Leaning against the countertop.
βWhat did you come here for? You didn't really say.β
βTo talk to you. I want to apologize.β
His bony index finger scratches his forehead. When he speaks again, it's in a gentler tone. Meditative.
βRemember when I told you being boring was my second worst fear?β He wasn't serious then. But he is now. βYou asked me what my first one is, andββ he shakes his head, waving like none of this matters, ββI don't even recall what I said back then. But, the truth is, I think it's something like this.β
A movement, short and vague, yet so damn eloquent: his index finger, travelling from him to you.
The low hiss of the kettle begins rattling the air. His wrist falls, glare fixed on his fingernails. Speaking feels difficult, each word a little too large as it passes through his gullet.
βYou never think those things can happen until they do.β His voice, almost reduced to a dwindling streak. βAnd when it doesβ¦β
He looks up from his bruised knuckles, encasing you in his gaze.
He doesn't realize how long he looks at you like this. The exact same way you do when sitting before the stained glass. Like he does, after dawn, alone in the nave, waiting for the precise moment the sun reveals itself through the windows of the sanctuary.
You pivot to halt the screeching of the kettle. The spell is severed.
βMaybe I should go now.β
βIt's still raining.β
He stands regardless.
βThanks for the tea.β
βYou didn't have a drop,β you blankly point out, in a feeble voice.
You precede him in the vestibule nonetheless, a bad taste of deja vu souring your mouthβhis slender silhouette, black and navy blue, disappearing into the deluge.
Your fingers stiffen around the doorknob. A piece of somber weather slithers in through the passage.
His hand covers yours. The door falls back into its frame with a rattle.
βI recognized you. Ever since we first spoke. How is that possible? How do you explain it?β
Recognition, meaning familiarity. An admission of inborn closeness. As he imagines Adam, the first man, would've recognized his missing rib.
βDon't talk about God here,β you warn, sensing where this wind might turn. Your voice shrouds itself in cool admonition, concealing what lies under. βIf you want to stay, leave Him at the doorstep.β
βI can't do that.β His voice drops to a whisper. A sweetness lingers on his breath, caressing your face. Syrupy, botanical. You imagine him, nervously chewing on honey drops, the ones shaped like round hives the size of penniesβwishing they'd soothe not just some benign throat pain, but whatever flows further below, nestled in his ribcage.
Gently, ever so gently, his fingers rearrange yours, unclenching them from the knob until they rest in his hand. You can't look up. Your attention remains fixed on his collarβlily-white, perfect, unsullied. Sitting right beneath that black lace of ink, close to his pulse, a patch of skin you're desperate to kiss.
You're incapable of distinguishing who is speaking to you in that moment.
Priest or man. Maybe both.
βI feel closer to Him when I'm with you,β he murmurs.
Not quite a confession. It lacks the weight of remorse.
You frown, eyes trailing up; his gaze catches yours, holds it like a chalice.
βHow does it even make sense?β
βI don't know. I don't know,β he exhales.
His lips ghost over yours. Breathings merging. He smells so deeply of the rain, loosely doused curls trickling against your forehead.
With great difficulty, you steer him back a little.
βYou can still go,β a soft reminder. βI'll understand.β
βAt my last confessionββ his palm encases the nape of your neck, drawing you back to him, nose brushing the shell of your ear, ββI said that I've been distracted. That I've found myself wanting for what I can't have, what I shouldn't even think to have. Neglected the congregation, people in need... People I want to help, to whom I want to bring Christ's love.β
Your jointed shapes jaggedly step away from the front door. Stumbling down the corridor, still clutching each other. Afraid, nervous. Wanting.
βBut I couldn't tell the truth. And I couldn't pray it away. I only made it worse.β
Your absence only made it worse.
βYou remind me why I do all this. What it's for. You just do.β
His breathing hastens. Fingers pushing into your waist. You feel tipsy, electric, with his finger swiftly pulling down the strap of your top to trace your clavicle. Large hands on your body, reverendly mapping you, like you're made of glass.
The taste of salving candy lingers on his tongue, shared with yours when he kisses you at last. Communion.
You run your fingers through his hair, coaxing him closer. Ankles almost tangling with his while you guide him down the hall, nearly losing balance, gripping the notch of his jacket at the last minute. He removes the jacket, shaking the flimsy sleeves until everything falls to the floor.
The bedroom door slams against the wall when it swings openβyou'll need to check later that it hasn't made a dent.
The hems of his shirt hang untucked from his pants. His belt loops onto the ground with a metallic twinkle. Your fingers halt as they're about to unbutton his shirt, and he spots your mild panic, the eyes on his throat. Struck with a certain tenderness for you, once he understands the origin of your hesitance.
He removes the clerical collar himself. Preciously setting it onto the small console table nearby. It doesn't make sense; it shouldn't mean anything to you, but you're holding your breath as you watch him. He turns himself over to you next. Finishing what he started. The tank top is hurled over your head. He does the same with your jeans, fidgeting with the button, undoing the zipper.
Scabbed-over lesions pattern Father Jud's knuckles, like they've ruthlessly been bashed onto a robust surface. You notice this with wrinkled brows, reaching to pull his hands away from the task of undressing you.
βWhat happened here?β
He improvises.
βCandle holder fell. It's not important.β
He's about to distract you from further questions, but you're bringing his hands to your lips, kissing the abrasions, kissing those hands that can mold wood, that offer drinks or tissues, that pat shoulders or other hands, hands that pull out weeds and pick up the phone at three in the morning to pray with tormented insomniacs. Hands that give more than they take.
You lend his fingers back to him with a grin and he collects it, stunned, smitten with you. Bending down, he frees you of the sheathing denim, pulling the trouser legs to slide your knees out of them, one after the other, until you're almost naked, slightly shiveringβthough not from the cold.
βI can't believe how much stuff you're wearing,β you gently fuss, unveiling the tee-shirt stowed beneath his black shirt. βDo you really get that cold?β
Your rambling makes him wonder.
βAre you nervous or something?β
It's a little unbelievable that he's the one asking this. But it feels impossible to lie to him. The tee-shirt joins the rest of the heaped clothes at the foot of the bed.
βThis is probably an intrusive questionββ you almost choke on the words from how fast you're pushing them out, thinking the sooner you do, the sooner the embarrassment will subdue, ββbut, have youβ¦ have you done this before?β
He doesn't seem to understand. When it finally dawns on him, he bites his cheek, swallowing a smile, on the verge of a nervous snicker.
βI wasn't always a member of the clergy, you know. But honestly, it's been a long time since I'veββ your fingers nudge him carefully, making him recline on your bed; he props himself up on his elbows, finishing his sentence in a raspy tone, ββsince I've done this, yeah.β
You straddle him, hips hovering over his, not quite touching each other.
βLet's take it slow then.β
βFine by me,β he coos.
He sits up and reaches around you, unclasping your bra, letting it flop down onto his lap. By instinct, you want to shield yourself behind crossed arms, but he's already moving ahead of you. His knuckles graze the side of your breast, one thumb contemplatively following its curve.
You let him do this almost a whole minute, gulping down whatever it stirs in you, until you can't take it anymore and push onto his shoulders to give yourself a breather. His irises consider you curiously while you help him out of his underwear.
βSorry,β you stutter, upon realizing you've literally just smacked his hand away when he tried to do the same, fingers dipping into the waistband of your panties. βIt's just, you're making me reallyββ
His proximity feels fucking sweltering.
βAt any point in this,β you explain, βif you don't wantββ
βHeyββ he thrusts himself back up, βI'm here of my own free will.β
His palm cups the side of your face.
βYou said we'd go slow,β he reminds you. βLet's go slow.β
He lies back down, tugging you along so you're nestled against him, catching your lips with his in a slow, deliberate kiss. One hand curving around the back of your neck, the other reaching down rubbing your spine. Making out with you until your body unstiffens, prying you out of your own nest of briars and nerves.
You're astonished he's still here. Letting you touch him, letting him touch you. It all seems like a hazy dream. Your mind stills at last, exiting the fight or flight mode.
Parting away from his mouth with a wet sound, you lower yourself a little, your hand slipping over his lean form, flat stomach, coarse black hair climbing up to his navel. Digits bumping his protruding iliac bone, brushing gingerly against his length. When you take him in your hand, your eyes travel back up to him. Exploring his features. Feeling him twitch against your palm and his hips wavering forward, subconsciously begging you. After a bundle of mist-soft kisses peppered down his stomach, your breath hitches atop his erection.
βCan I?β
βYeah.β
He exhales so quietly, you barely catch the word.
Your tongue follows the trail of a sinuous vein, the fragile texture on this sensitive, conceiled part of him, and his head rolls back, Adam's apple motioning as he swallows harshly. Has such a hard time, staying focused on you when it feels like you're scattering stars under his skin, mouth warming his tip, a little further, a little more, your hand gripping him with enough firmness to set ablaze every single nerve in that region.
βYou'reββ a ragged breath, ββpretty good at this.β
People spurt strange declarations when pleasure heats their core and muddles their reason. All things considered, this isn't too bad.
βYou know, I'm never sure whether that's a compliment,β you retort in a light voice.
He laughs. You bite your lip before pressing a soft peck onto his thigh.
Switching between your mouth and your hands, uncertain what he seems to be responding to best, trying out combinations until the melody of his breath changes, wildly losing composure.
You think he's close. It's difficult to tell. Your tongue's too busy anyway to inquire about it. He sits perfectly rigid between your lips, slick with a blend from his own arousal and your mouth. Your face pulls back, searching for air, but your fingers keep building the tension. You want to watch him. His muscles hard and edged with pleasure, his chest rising and falling, that hand of his, the one with the inked forearm, loosely clutching the side of your face.
He whispers your name. Fingers stiffening in your hair.
He pulsates in your palm next. Gravelous moans replacing the rumble of the weather outside, spellbinding. You keep on stroking him, preserving the same pressure that brought him to the verge. His spent lightens your collarbones, trickles down your right breast.
You wait for him next, for him to climb down from the clouds. Nails grazing his thighs gently. Eventually, his eyelids flutter open. There's a stretched, unhurried silence.
He tries to catch his breath before his eyes travel over to you, rolling back up, not quite back into your realm yet.
βWhere's the bathroom?β he croaks after two minutes or so.
You're a little taken aback.
βDoor over there.β
He vanishes from your touch, and you lie on your back, limbs akimbo, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
Shit.
He's going to walk out of there now, you realize, building the upcoming sequence in your head, trying to prepare yourself. He'll say he has to go, pick his clothes up, get dressed, and leave.
You think of the morning he kissed you for the first time, the woeful glance, the desperate βI'm sorryβ.
This was always going to happen.
The door squeaks. He reappears, towel in hand. The mattress sinks as he kneels next to you. It startles you when he begins to run the fabric across your skin, your chest, where traces of him still linger. He's dampened the cloth with warm water first, cleaning you now with almost ceremonious heed.
βYou don't need toβ¦ do this.β You're not sure what else to say.
He lets out a soft puff. You're right, he doesn't need to. But he wants to.
When he finishes, he casts the towel aside, his face lingering above yours. One palm lying flat on your stomach.
βI don't think we're done yet,β he observes. Instilling in you nothing but the purest trust you could ever offer someone.
He drags the elastic band of your underwear down, finishing what you prevented him from doing earlier. Digits slithering down your pelvis, curving to part the petal-soft flesh.
Your fingertips extend towards him, softly tracing over the tattoo on his forearm before wrapping around his wrist. Barely guiding him, only giving a soft nudge, a lax pointer, so his fingers press where you like.
βHere?β he whispers.
βHere.β
With focused eyes, he begins working you up. Attentive to the way you squirm and bite your tongue. When a sudden moan breaks through your lips, he repeats what elicited the cry. Quick, small circles. Languid motions, drawing back and forth. Your arousal coats his long fingers, warm and glossy.
He knows more about what he's doing than he's let on.
You let go of his wrist to clasp the comforter. His mouth lowers to your chest, tongue teasing your erect nipple. Catching its bud between his lips, giving it the most delicate nibble.
βOh, fβplease do that again,β you whimper.
So he does, indulgent, compliant. His mouth keeps brushing your upper body, reaching lower, lower, lower. Your eyes are closed, but you sense his weight shift around the bed. His bulk settled between your legs, one hand kneading the back of your thigh.
When he eats you out, his speed, his tension, he adjusts, alters, changes with the sounds you make. Quick flickers of his tongue that almost make you cry. Middle finger pumping into you, true to your agreement of keeping things slowβeven if it's only to sow frustration in youβuntil he inserts his ring finger, pushing knuckles deep, curling them slightly, inflicting a mind-stilling caress.
You're certain of it now. He knows so much more than he's let on.
A familiar heat spreads from your core. The tapping of rain on the window melts into a hallucination of angelic chatter.
βJud. I'm gonnaββ
It's the first time you verbally slip, sputtering only his first name, disrobing it of prefix and title. He doesn't have any time to focus on that, to ponder on its meaning.
The very next second, something uncoils between your hips.
You come on his tongue, on his fingers, your muscles squeezing tight around him. He doesn't stop, doesn't slow down, transmuting the initial crash into a wave of pure bliss, and you're sobbing euphoria, all your thoughts scattered, useless.
βHey,β sluggishly calling to him, once you get your voice back, with slight disbelief, βyou're pretty good at this too.β
He shakes his head at your nonsense, amused.
Taking care of you has gotten him hard again. His erection teases your thigh while he climbs back atop you, his knees poking the back of yours. Your thumb contours his lips, hands framing his face next, absorbing the heat he exudes.
βI don't have protection,β you signal, still panting, hit by the harrowing realization.
He obviously isn't carrying any around either.
βHow far's the nearest drugstore?β he leisurely asks, and you burst out laughing.
Some things are simply universally comical, and a priest buying condoms might fit into the list.
He isn't serious, of course, but still. You grab the back of his neck, pulling him in for a kiss. Feels like overheat, when you're close like this, sweat gathering between your chests and stomachs.
Your lower body arches up. Trying to meet him. His hand finishes the gesture, pressed on the small of your back, slotting you against his pelvis.
Lewd sounds densen the air of the room, hard skin on soft flesh. He looks down to where your bodies touch. Only touching. A prologue to an act he can't bring himself to finish, the line that he can't breach. It maddens him, how perfectly your lower lips shape the side of his length, your hips swirling to meet his in this captivating, hypnotic motion. As enthralling the sight, he can't watch you forever. His resolve would break.
βI want you so much,β you sob.
βI know,β he heaves back.
Planting a love bite in the side of your neck to make up for it. If he doesn't come soon, he knows he'll end up slipping through, joining your bodies for good, raw and utterly careless.
You want to memorize every shape of the muscles in his back, the rolling motion of his shoulder blades beneath your fingers, the steady bumps of his spine.
God, that friction.
Your hand snugly presses him, massaging him between your core and your palm. The pressure on your clit is perfect. Meticulous, almost torturously slow, trying not to push too fast, too far.
βFuck, this isββ he gasps, struggling to finish the sentence.
He takes over your grasp, his hand stabilizing himself against you.
βAre you close again?β he wonders.
You nod passionately.
βDo you wanna get there together?β
βYeah.β
He hums his approval. Grinding a little faster against you, bucking his hips forward.
βI'm almost there,β you whimper.
βI'm gonnaβ¦β he begins to warn.
βJust a little more. A little more.β
β'Kay,β lips burrowing into your neck, embracing patience, directing himself so he keeps rubbing your clit. βA little more.β
Swept up in ecstasy, time stills when you break apart against each other. Holding with nails, teeth sinking into each other, almost afraid of being yanked from one another. Flesh puffed and muscles sore from the jittery movement, you're incapable of a single move. The tiny room feels damp, its air congested and scalding.
His body drops on top of yours, relaxed and heavy. Skin slick with sweat, burdened with reddening patches that will prove difficult to explain, should anyone actually come to notice it.
You're not sure how many seconds elapse before he budges again. You've lost all track of time.
βOh, shit, I'm smothering you,β he mumbles.
βNo, no you're not,β you giggle.
Like ivy, his arms encircle you, catching you in a tightening embrace. Tendrils of dark brown hair tickle your chin.
βWhen are you leaving?β he hums into your collarbone.
βTonight. β
βDo you know if you mightβ¦β
His voice falls hushed.
βNo,β you admit, because there's no point in lying. No point in pretending whatever just happened could ever exist again outside this room, outside this precise moment. βI don't think there's a reason for me to come back someday.β
Another odd silence. Could almost hear an angel stretch its wings.
βYou know I can'tββ he begins.
βI know. I would never ask that.β
Your fingers pinch a solitary eyelash on his cheekbone, discarding it without making a wish.
βYou don't have to stay. I understand if you're needed elsewhere,β you assure.
He should go. But having to and wanting to are very different things.
βI'm not. Unless you want me to leave.β
βNo.β
βMmh. Good.β
βIf there's some time, maybe you can tell me about this.β
Your finger grazes his neck tattoo. He scratches it like a mosquito bite, and you feel the rising of his cheekbone when he smiles, poking you.
βI'll tell you. Whatever you want to know. But, let's justββ
He slides himself off you, now flushed against your flank, one leg caressing yours and arm still wrapped around your waist. His nose teases your temple.
βLet's just stay like this. A little while longer.β
You'll never know, whether God sits somewhere in the room, or if He left on his tippy toes a moment ago, bashful yet softened, bringing gossip back to the Heavens about His endearing mess of a son.
If you are to imagine this God, you want to picture Him loving, forgiving, just like that man in your arms: Father Jud and the pond-blue eyes, the tousled hair and fervent heart, his peaceful restlessness, imperfect enthusiasm, and those coarse hands, delectably tender when they're running across your skin.
Arthur catches reader braiding his horse's hair and weaving ribbons and such into the braids. Maybe reader did it cause she was bored, maybe her and Dutch were at it again and she needed to blow off steam? Either way, Arthur's gonna start bringing more stuff to braid into its mane for her.
And the idea of Arthur, feared outlaw with a bounty of $5,000, robbing people with a dolled up horse is pretty funny
πΉanon
Warnings/MDNI: Age gap (you are in early 20's and Arthur is 30-31), just fluff, fluff and more fluff o(β§ββ¦)o
β β€Ώ β m.list
Arthur didnβt get many slow afternoons. So when one finally rolled around, sun warm, gun quiet, Dutch distracted with his own voice, he figured heβd do what any man with half a brain would:
Find you. Pull you into his lap in the cot. Nap with his face tucked against your neck and chest like some lovesick fool. Which he is.
Only⦠you were nowhere.
You barely looked at him over lunch. Didnβt sit beside him either, even though you damn well knew he couldnβt swallow a bite unless you were in his line of sight. And now youβd vanished like morning mist, no note, no wink, not even one of your usual dramatic exits.
He wandered the edge of camp once, then twice. Agitation building. Jaw tight. You werenβt in your own cot, werenβt near the fire, werenβt reading under the tree like usual.
He was about to go full Hosea-level panic when he caught the sound of soft grumbling, not far, just behind the stables.
Arthur rounded the corner fast, ready to scold or kiss or both, but the words died in his throat.
There you were. Standing beside his horse, focused, quiet. Braiding strands of her mane with fingers too delicate for the world you lived in. Ribbons, blue, yellow, and one that looked suspiciously like someoneβs torn shirt, were woven in with almost ceremonial care.
"...What the hell are you doin'?" he asked, voice half-choked with disbelief.
You didnβt even look up. "Papa told me off again! I needed an outlet. Stupid , stupid lectures..."
"So you-" Arthur gestured toward the mare, stunned. "You braided my horse?"
"She likes it," you said, tying off another braid with a firm tug. "Sheβs very patient. Unlike some people."
Arthur blinked.
Then blinked again.
Then made a quiet sound that mightβve been a laugh, or a groan of defeat.
"Well," he muttered, walking up behind you and slipping an arm around your waist, "guess I better start stealin' ribbons now too."
His chin brushed your shoulder as he leaned in, lips barely grazing the shell of your ear.
"Y'know, you scared the hell outta me, disappearin' like that darlin'," he murmured.
You kept your hands moving, but your breath hitched just a little. "Didn't mean to. Just needed space."
He hummed, not angry, just⦠thoughtful. Tired. Soft.
"You don't gotta disappear to breathe, yβhear me?" His voice dropped lower, rough with worry he didnβt know how to say out loud. "Not from me. Not ever."
You finally looked back at him, and his eyes met yours, stormy, searching.
He kissed your temple. Then your cheekbone. Then just under your jaw. Soft, reverent.
"Was gonna nap," he whispered. "Only wanted my doll beside me. Thatβs all."
"Even if I'm not in the mood?"
He chuckled into your skin. "Especially then."
You turned slightly in his arms, the braid forgotten for a moment, and let your hands rest at his chest. Arthurβs hat had tipped back just enough for you to see how his gaze dropped to your mouth.
"Don't tell me you're gonna start babyin' me just because I braided your horse."
"No," he drawled, "I'm gonna start babyin' you βcause Iβm in love with you. Deep, deep in."
You blinked. "Arthur."
He shrugged, like it wasnβt something to be ashamed of. Like it was just a fact. "Canβt help it. Youβre the only person who can make my horse look like sheβs off to a tea party and still get me weak in the knees."
You rolled your eyes, but your laugh betrayed you.
Arthur dipped his head again, lips grazing the corner of your mouth, slow, lazy, like he had nowhere better to be than right here.
"Iβll make you a deal," he said, voice low and curling into your ribs. "You keep braidin' her hair, and Iβll bring you somethinβ pretty from every town I ride through. Ribbons, beads... hell, Iβll rob a haberdashery."
"Arthur," you guffawed, head tilting back, and he took it as a chance to kiss your neck, "thatβs not very outlaw of you. Besides, this is the only time I did it. Didn't know what else to doβ¦ and here you are, tryin' to make it my hobby."
"Oh, sweetheart," he said, finally kissing you proper, slow and steady, like he meant to ruin you for anything else. He pulled back just enough to grin against your lips. "You make me do all kinds of outlaw things. And damn right youβre gonna keep doinβ it."
The next morning, Arthur saddled up like usual, only now, his horseβs mane was a woven tapestry of tiny braids, pastel ribbons, and a lone wooden bead shaped like a heart. You hadnβt meant to go overboard.
Well⦠maybe you had.
Heβd insisted on keeping it in.
"Youβre not seriously riding out like that," you said, watching him adjust the reins.
Arthur glanced over his shoulder. "Sure I am."
"Sheβs got flowers behind her ear, Arthur."
"Yeah. Wild lavender. Thought it looked nice."
"Youβre gonna be laughed out of town."
He swung into the saddle with the grace of a man who didnβt care one damn bit. "Let 'em laugh. You made her look like a dream. 'Sides, anyone says somethin', Iβll shoot 'em in the foot."
You snorted. But kind of worried because knowing him, he would actually do that.
By the time he rode into camp for morning patrol, the reaction was⦠immediate.
Sean choked on his coffee. "What in Godβs name-"
"Arthur!" Bill hollered, walking up to the horse like it had grown wings. "Whyβs yer mare lookinβ like sheβs headed for Sunday school in Saint Denis?"
Arthur didnβt even blink. He dismounted, patted his horseβs neck, then looked Bill dead in the eye. "She looks perfect. Itβs called class. Somethin' you lack."
Even Dutch sauntered over, arms crossed, lips twitching with amusement. "Arthur, my boyβ¦ either youβve gone soft, or someoneβs got you tied around their little finger."
Arthur just smirked and looked toward your tent, where you were definitely hiding behind the flap, watching all of it unfold with amusement.
"Maybe I have," he called back, just loud enough for you to hear. "Ainβt no shame in it."
Then, as if to really make a point, he reached into his satchel and pulled out a folded bit of lace.
"She forgot this. Gotta get it tied in before I ride."
Dead silence.
Then Mary-Beth let out a dreamy sigh, fanning herself. "That man is... gone, Tilly. Gone."
Arthur strode past everyone, headed back to you with lace in hand, and not one ounce of shame in his walk.
Reader has a cut or bad bruise on her shin and Arthur has to lift her skirt all the way up to her knee to look at it (How scandalous!! π«£π«£)
πΉanon
Warnings/MDNI: Age gap (you are in early 20's and Arthur is 30-31), fluff, him being lovesick- b(οΏ£β½οΏ£)
β β€Ώ β m.list
You donβt even know why youβre walking funny.
Okay, you do.
You tripped.
On a bucket.
A stupid, traitorous bucket someone left by the horses. Now thereβs a bruise blooming on your shin and a limp youβre desperately trying to hide.
But Arthurβs eyes track you like a damn hawk.
"Youβre limpinβ."
"No, Iβm not. Itβs jus' the groundβs uneven."
"You are."
You try to walk faster. He walks faster. You slow down. He slows down. You finally stop and throw your hands in the air.
"I tripped on a bucket, alright? Iβm not dyinβ. Go play lawman somewhere else."
He squints, already crouching down in front of you before you can escape. "Lemme see."
"No."
"Darlinβ."
"Iβm not pullinβ up my skirt in front of half the camp so you can stare at my legs."
Arthur smirks faintly. "Fine."
You blink. "Fine?"
Before you can ask what he means, his large hands are already guiding you backwards, firm but careful. You stumble slightly, and the next thing you know, youβre being sat down on an old crate like some misbehaving schoolgirl.
"Arthur-"
"Lemme take a look," he says calmly, crouching in front of you. One hand wraps around your ankle, steady and warm. The other slides up to your calf, rough thumb brushing your skin as he gently but firmly pushes your skirt up past your knee.
You freeze.
Scandalous.
Unthinkable-
"Arthur!-"
"Relax. I ainβt lookinβ at nothinβ you donβt want me to see."
But heβs focused now, all trace of teasing gone, eyes narrowed at the angry bruise blooming across your shin.
You freeze.
"Arthur-"
"Damn," he mutters. "Thatβs worse than I thought."
"Saw it? Happy now?"
You try to pull your skirt back down. He stops you with a warm palm on your knee.
"You really werenβt gonna tell me?"
"Itβs just a scratch!"
He doesnβt say anything for a moment. Just breathes in slow, jaw tense, thumb ghosting around the tender skin like heβs scared to make it worse.
"You shouldnβtβve been walkinβ on this," he murmurs finally, voice low and gravel-soft.
"I told you it's nothing, stop," you mutter, but even you know thatβs a lie.
Arthur huffs through his nose , not angry, just... aching. Then, before you can react, he leans down.
His lips press softly to the edge of the bruise.
You stiffen, heartbeat thudding so loud youβre sure he hears it. But Arthur doesnβt stop. Doesnβt even look up.
He kisses a little further up, where the swelling dips. Another kiss, right over the worst part. Feather-light, like he thinks love might mend what ointment canβt.
"Youβre killinβ me," he whispers between kisses. "Walkinβ around like this... actinβ like youβre made of stone when I know damn well youβre not."
His hand smooths up the side of your leg, never straying, just holding you steady.
"Iβd take this pain if I could. Hell, Iβd take ten of βem. Rather me than you."
You swallow, staring at the top of his head. "Arthur..."
His lips press higher, slow, insistent. He kisses the bruised skin like heβs mad at it. Like he could suck the hurt right out of you and spit it into the dirt. Each kiss is a vow.
You open your mouth, something snarky ready on your tongue-
He looks up at you, finally, eyes soft, lips still brushing your skin. "Next time youβre hurtinβ, you tell me. I ainβt lettinβ you suffer in silence. Not when Iβm here to do somethinβ about it. Itβs you. There ainβt such a thing as 'just' when it comes to you."
But he kisses your knee. And itβs not just tenderness now, itβs possession. A quiet, firm declaration:
Mine.
"Arthur, I---OH!"
Sean. Again.
"Didnβt see nothinβ, I swear-"
Arthur doesn't move. Doesn't blink. Just turns his head slightly, voice cold as a rifle barrel.
"You keep lookinβ, Sean, and Iβll make sure you walk funny too."
The poor Irishman turns full-circle on his heel the moment he catches sight of Arthur crouched between your knees, your skirt hiked up to your thighs.
"Already gone!" Sean yells over his shoulder. "Didnβt see a damn thing!"
Arthur sighs, visibly restraining the urge to commit a murder. "Iβm gonna kill him one of these days."
"Oh, perfect, I always dreamed of being camp gossip. Really, thanks, Arthur, you lumbering oaf."
Arthur smirks, brushing his thumb gently over the edge of the bruise. "Good. Maybe now someoneβll finally marry you."
You swat at his shoulder. He catches your hand, kisses the inside of your wrist, then the other.
"I ainβt lettinβ you walk βround like this anymore. You fall, you yell for me."
"I tripped over a bucket, Arthur."
He leans in, lips brushing the inside of your knee , "Next time you fall,β he murmurs, "I better be the one catchinβ you."
You laugh at the silly line as he wanted you to , choked and shaking, so that he can kiss that, too. And he does. Kisses the sound right off your lips.
Aggressive and messy but devoted.
Like he's scared the world might take you away if he doesn't love you hard enough.
You think you're in the clear.
You think maybe Arthur'll kiss your wrist one last time and let you limp off with whatever pride you have left.
But then he straightens up and, before you can react, hooks an arm under your knees and the other around your back.
βArthur, NO---ARTHUR, what are you doing?!"
He lifts you off the ground like you weigh nothing, settling you against his chest while your skirt flutters traitorously in the breeze.
"Gettinβ you off that leg before it gets worse."
"WHAT'S WRONG WITH YOU-"
"Relax, darlin'."
You glance around, and half the camp has stopped what theyβre doing.
Karen drops her coffee. Tillyβs grinning. Charles doesnβt even bother hiding his chuckle. Bill looks confused, but thatβs normal.
And Sean? Seanβs somewhere in the distance screaming, "I TOLD YβALL THEY WAS CANOODLIN"!"
You bury your face in Arthurβs shirt. "This is humiliating."
"Nah. This is me takinβ care of whatβs mine."
Your heart skips. You donβt reply. You canβt.
He lowers his voice near your ear, tone suddenly soft again. "You think I care what they say? Iβd carry you every day if it meant you didnβt walk a step in pain.β
You go quiet. Your hand slowly grips the fabric at his chest.
He walks you straight to his tent, ignoring every whistle, every stare, every amused comment.
You hiss again as he gently lowers you onto the cot like heβs handling glass.
"See? Not so bad," he says, brushing your hair from your face.
"I hope you know that I hate you."
He grins. "Love you too, pretty girl".
He props your foot on his thigh once more, knees bent as he kneels beside the cot. The warmth of his palm settles over your shin, and you watch in silence as he unscrews the bottle and soaks the cloth.
"This might sting," he says, voice softer now.
The first dab burns, and you tense , but his other hand immediately slides up to steady your thigh, thumb rubbing slow, absentminded circles into your skin.
"You ever think about being a nurse?"
Arthur chuckles low in his throat. "Only for you, sweetheart."
When the bruise is clean, he tears off a strip of bandage with his teeth and starts wrapping, slow and methodical. His hands are rough from years of gunpowder and rope, but he handles you like youβre something fragile.
He ties the knot off neatly, then rubs his thumb once over the finished wrap like heβs sealing it.
"You didnβt have to do all that," you sigh, thankful it's over.
"Course I did," he says, setting your leg down gently. "Youβre my girl. Gettinβ hurtβs not just your problem anymore."
You donβt reply, you couldn't, not with the way your chest aches at his words. So instead, you let him lift the blanket back up over your legs, tucking it around you with the same care heβd give a wounded bird.
Then, without a word, he leans forward and presses a kiss to the bandage. One more to your ankle. And one just over your knee, slow and reverent.
"Better now?".
You nod. But he doesn't move.
Instead, Arthur shifts beside you on the cot. He sits there for a second, head down, thumbs fidgeting, like he's fighting off something stupid. Then he gives in. Always does, with you.
"C'mere, you blind careless woman," he mutters, already pulling you into him.
You don't resist, but do throw a nasty ass look at him. Your body is stiff at first, sore, aching, pride still stinging more than the injury. But Arthur doesn't care. He tucks you right against his chest like it's instinct, arms cradling you with a kind of gentleness most wouldn't expect from a man like him.
One hand finds your hair. The other grips the small of your back. Finally, he sighs in relief as if he's been healed more than you.
You shift a little, face tucked under his jaw now, catching the warmth of his neck, the soft scratch of his beard.
"You are not allowed to hide anything from me, missy."
You press a kiss to his collarbone. Itβs an apology. A thank-you...
He hums low in his throat and you feel it vibrate through your chest.
"Reckon you're stuck with me now," he murmurs.
And he means it.
He doesn't move. Just leans back against the cot, dragging you with him, until your weight rests against his, and the world fades out around the sound of his breathing and the slow, steady beat of his heart.
"You rest," he whispers, brushing your hair back again. "I'll be right here, darlin'." His fingers linger there a moment too long, not because heβs unsure, but because heβs not ready to stop touching you.
His hand never leaves your back. Even as your eyes grow heavy.
Even as sleep starts to steal you both. Like he's still making sure youβre here. Still alive. Still his.
And he means it. Because to him, you are the most precious.
summary | late nights listening to music lead to late-stage realizations (aka, jonathan finally realizes you have a thing for him)
warnings | childhood best friends, reader likes pop music, minor steve harrington slander if you squint, don't fact check my 80s pop culture references, got this idea while listening to dizzy on the comedown by turnover, fluff
word count | 2.6k
Your gasp rivaled the too-loud volume of The Clash's latest album spinning in Jonathan's record player, sat up on the old vinyl shelf that always looked to be one ill-timed breath in its direction from collapsing.
Jonathan was on the floor beside you. He sat with his back against the side of his messily made bed, your socked feet resting in his lap as he read some comic Will had asked him to check out.
At your gasp, he immediately looked up.
You shot him a toothy grin from over the top of this month's Teen Beat. "You'll never guess what happened."
The corners of his mouth twitched upwards. "Try me," he dared.
Flipping the magazine around, you tapped excitedly at a blurry photo of Cher and Val Kilmer, caught locking lips in the back of a limo after some glitzy Hollywood party.
"They're dating!"
Jonathan dropped the comic, putting on his best I Love Gossip voice. βYou're kidding."
You cut your eyes and flipped the magazine back around. "Don't mock me, J."
"Does that sound like something I would do?"
"Indubitably," you announced, dramatically turning a page.
"No," said Jonathan. "It's just, it's exactly like you said." It was obvious he was trying hard to stay serious, to keep that shy smile of his from taking over. "I can't believe it."
Laughing, you tossed the magazine at his face.
He dodged, but only barely, too busy laughing right along with you.
If Joyce was home, now would've been when she'd knock on Jonathan's door. Exhausted, yet kind as ever, she would've reminded you both that it was quarter past nine and she had work in the morning. Just...try to keep it down, okay?
If Will was home, then approximately five minutes ago would've been when he'd invited himself inside, settling on Jonathan's bed to hover sweetly over the top of you and Who's dating? while craning his neck for a better view of the magazine.
But they were both out right now. Joyce working a closing shift at Melvald's, and your favorite drama queen playing D&D at a friend's house.
It was only you. Only Jonathan.
And The Clash, of course.
"You're insufferable," you eventually told him, still glaring playfully.
Jonathan squeezed your foot. "Says the one obsessed with crappy magazines."
"Oh I'm sorry, J β am I too lame for you? Is my love for pop culture ruining your street cred?"
Another laugh framed his pretty brown eyes with the most precious crinkles. "Who says street cred?" he asked incredulously.
"Lame-os, apparently."
It was his turn to cut his eyes. "If either of us lame," he contended, "it's definitely me."
The urge to frown was unbearable, but you tried resisting it.
Jonathan talking down on himself was a frequent occurrence. He'd always been insecure, even back in elementary school when you were both too young to know why older kids picked on him for his too-big coat and out-of-style sneakers.
High school had made it worse, though. A lot worse.
Sometimes you wished all of Hawkins High could see Jonathan the way you saw him. Understatedly funny with impeccable music taste; a photographer NYU would be lucky to teach; smarter than half this damned town and caring to a fault.
Other times β selfish, greedy times β you were glad they didn't.
Hawkins didn't deserve Jonathan, anyway.
Gently, you nudged him in the stomach with your foot. "If you're lame, then I'm lame by association," you told him. "Which actually means you're not lame at all, because Iβ" you laid a hand on your chest "βam the coolest person to ever exist."
"Didn't you just call yourself a lame-o?"
"Have you never heard of a joke, J? A bit of witticism? An old chestnut, even!"
With a groan that was both embarrassed on your behalf and thoroughly amused, Jonathan tossed his head back against the bed. "Great," he said to the ceiling. "So we're both lame."
You had full intent to argue for argument's sake, to make some exuberant claim as to why you were the furthest thing from lame (as if you weren't spending a Saturday night on your best friend's bedroom floor raving over celebrity romance while wearing fuzzy socks with cat in rainboots on them) when the room went totally silent.
The album had ended.
Jonathan lifted his head.
The two of you shared a look.
And thenβ
You shrieked when Jonathan shoved your feet of his lap, both of you scrambling to get off the floor. His room became a flurry of limbs and shouts and shoves, each fighting the other to cross the mere feet that separated you from the decrepit vinyl shelf.
Jonathan beat you.
"No fair," you whined. He was already lifting The Clash record off the platter and sliding it back into its sleeve. "You picked the last two albums. It's my turn, Byers!"
"You know the rules," he teased. "You snooze you lose."
"We should play rock-paper-scissors for it."
He dragged a finger over the records on his shelf, deciding which to play next. "You wouldn't say that if I was the one who lost."
"It's not losing if the competition's rigged!"
This whole Race to the Record Player thing was an unfair challenge. Not only were his legs longer than yours, but he had home-field advantage! His room was in such disarray that if you ran too fast, you were likely to twist your ankle on a lone Converse living under a denim jacket.
Jonathan turned his head to smile at you. It was so boyish and sweet, so unknowingly adorable, that you almost forgot to stay mad at him.
"You know," he said, "no one likes a sore loser."
An Oh, phooey! was already halfway up your throat when he slid a record out and showed it to you for approval.
One look at the cover and your Oh, phooey fizzled into a gasp.
"You're kidding!"
Jonathan's taste was eclectic but leaned into post-punk rock territory. Talking Heads, Joy Division, The Psychedelic Furs. Spending so much time with him meant you had come to love all those bands too β but unlike him, you weren't immune to the bubblegum bite of the pop-music bug.
Cyndi Lauper was your new favorite artist.
And now β in Jonathan's beautiful, beautiful hand β was her first ever studio album, She's So Unusual.
Released less than a week ago, there was no way he'd gotten it without spending a pretty penny. A valuable penny. One that could've been given to Joyce for extra groceries or put aside to replace the starter in his car. He could've even bought himself a new record, instead of spending hard-earned money on an album he wouldn't even listen to outside of your presence.
"Remember when I called you insufferable?" you asked.
He tipped his head to one side, pretty brown eyes crinkling as he pretended to think. "Vaguely."
"Well consider this my apology."
Before he could react, you lifted onto your toes and grabbed his face in your hands, pressing a sweet kiss to his cheek. His skin was soft, a little prickly where he'd missed a few spots shaving. He turned red so fast you felt warmth bloom under your lips. When you pulled back, admiring his new cherry complexion, you decided you liked making Jonathan blush.
Trying to seem unfazed, Jonathan busied himself with putting the record on. "I'll take it under consideration," he said, but the awkward way he cleared his throat before speaking made it obvious: you were definitely forgiven.
He lowered the needle. Money Changes Everything floated through his room, a lively beat that made your bones tingle.
You flopped backwards onto his bed, sighing comfortably. It smelled like him, bar soap and laundry detergent. If he hadn't turned to face you, you probably would've buried your nose in the sheets.
"So." You needed to talk. Otherwise you'd spend too much time admiring how cute he looked, unsure what to do with his hands, unable to hold your gaze but incapable of looking away. "Will," you said.
Concern took him immediately. "What about Will?"
You laughed. "Calm your engine, sports car. I was just gonna ask if he was going to the Snow Ball."
The infamous middle school dance was next weekend. An old teacher of yours had reached out to ask if you'd help with snacks for it, and you maybe promised to bake and ice two hundred cupcakes by next Friday β a venture you fully planned on wrangling Jonathan into.
Jonathan shrugged. "I don't know...I think so."
"Good," you chirped. Because if he'd said no, you would've had to conjure a last-minute plan to convince Will that school dances were So Cool and not Life Ruining Awful. "What about you?"
He gave you a look. "I'm pretty sure I aged out of middle school dances."
You chucked a pillow at him. "Not the Snow Ball, dummy. Our dance."
They had made crowns, too, for whichever lucky students were voted to be the Winter King & Queen. Everyone was gossiping over who would be crowned queen.
There was no doubt who would be king.
Jonathan edged towards the bed. Sat, and immediately started fiddling with a stray thread on his black jeans. "I don't know. Probably not."
"Trick question." You shot up straight, knocking your shoulder into his. "You're definitely going. So, onto our next question: who are you gonna ask to be your date?"
You expected him to say 'I don't know' again.
Instead, he reluctantly replied: "Who's your date?"
You bit your lip against a smile. "No one."
"No one's asked you?"
"No one worth saying yes to." Truth was, there was only one person you'd say yes to. "Connie heard that Steve Harrington's gonna ask me on Monday, but you know Connie. You'd be better trusting a call-in psychic."
"You love call-in psychics."
"But I don't trust them," you said, bumping his shoulder again.
Jonathan kept picking at the thread on his jeans.
On accident, he snapped it right off.
"Well...if Steve asks," he started, still focused on his lap, "will you...I don't know, say yes, or..."
Do you want me to say yes?
"I'm offended," you said solemnly. "Honestly, you're supposed to be my best friend, J! If you don't know that I'm gonna tell Steve Harrington where to shove it, then who will?"
He forced a chuckle. "I don't know...I mean, it wouldn't so...strange, I guess, to think maybe you'd actually want to go with him."
"Why? Because he's got nice hair and a BMW?"
Brown eyes flicked to yours in a sidelong look that said Uh, yeah?
Your jaw fell. "Don't tell me you really think that a BMW is all it takes to win me over."
"Of course not," defended Jonathan. Then, with a too-shy smile: "I think nice hair is all it takes to win you over."
You reached back for his other pillow and whacked him in the face with it. He burst out laughing, stole the pillow, and tossed it clear across the room.
That didn't stop you.
You swatted his arms, his chest, shouting I can't believe you! and Take it back, dummy! Jonathan just kept laughing, dodging hits and trying to catch your wrists, failing and resorting to tickling your sides.
You didn't know how you ended up on top of him. Only that you were, both of you smiling and breathless, your hands pinning his wrists to the bed on either side of his head.
In the background, Time After Time hummed so softly you worried he could hear the sound of your heart fluttering wildly in your chest.
"I take it back," you mumbled, making his brow furrow. "Turns out you really are insufferable."
"Because I don't think you're immune to King Steve's charm?"
"Because you're an idiot." You let go of one of his wrists. His chest froze mid-breath, your fingertips grazing just above his eyebrows, brushing a strand of hair to the side. "Steve Harrington's not the only boy with nice hair, y'know."
Pretty brown eyes were blown wide, his throat working around a swallow. "My hair is...bad."
"To you, maybe." He never complained, but you knew he'd never liked that they didn't have enough money for his hair to be anything but a product of love and kitchen scissors. "I think it's perfect," you whispered, when what you meant was I think you're perfect.
Because he was, wasn't he? Always playing along with your silly Hollywood gossip, buying records he wouldn't like because he knew it'd make you happy.
How could I ever want Steve Harrington, you wondered, when Jonathan exists?
Stupidly, you murmured, "Hey."
He said it back, just as stupid.
"I've got an idea," you said. "What if we go to the dance?"
You weren't sure his eyes could get any wider. "As...friends?" he asked.
"Or a date," you suggested too quickly. "Unless you think it'll hurt your street cred, being spotted with some pop culture lame-o."
"What happened to being the coolest person to ever exist?"
"Depends on the moment." And right now, you certainly felt like a lame-o.
Jonathan considered a long moment, gazing at you all the while.
Finally, he said, "I don't have anything to wear."
"I'm sure we could find something."
"I don't have a BMW, either."
You cut your eyes and leaned in so close that the tips of your noses nearly touched. "If you allude to Steve Harrington even one more time," you threatened, "I promise to smear blue icing all over your face."
His brow furrowed. "And you just...keep icing on you, or...?"
"Did I not tell you?" you asked, knowing full well you hadn't. "I signed us up to bake two hundred cupcakes for Will's dance."
"Two hundred?!"
"Oh, c'mon! It's for your brother," you told him. "I'll even let you lick the whisk!"
"Is that supposed to convince me?"
"Convincing implies choice, which last I checked, I didn't give you."
An easy laugh tumbled from his lips. Without thinking, he brought the hand you'd freed up to your waist, squeezing light enough to make you squirm at the tickling sensation. "Have you ever considered that maybe you're the insufferable one?" he asked.
You shook your head. "Not even once."
His gaze flitted to your lips. You thought of all the times you'd wanted kiss Jonathan over the years, imagining what it'd be like to feel the warmth of his mouth and taste his toothpaste on your tongue, and wondered if maybe, just maybe, he'd been wanting to do the same.
He brought his hand to your face. Grazed his knuckles along the curve of your cheek, so soft you could barely feel it.
He swallowed. Asked, "Can Iβ"
The door swung open.
Will stood in the doorway, one hand on the doorknob, a cheerful "I'm home!" cut short when he caught sight of you straddling his older brother.
None of you spoke.
Then Will darted back into the hallway, slamming the door shut behind him as he shouted, "ABOUT TIME!"
You immediately started laughing.
"This isn't funny," Jonathan protested, cheeks flushed. "You know he can't keep a secret. He's gonna tell Mike, who's gonna tell his sister, who's probably gonna tell the whole school and thenβ"
You shut him by running your fingers through his hair.
"So. About that dance," you said. "Are we going?"
He looked at you like you were crazy. Like he was so sure this was all some mistake, a prank gone too far. You couldn't actually want him to be your date, and any minute now he was counting on you to remember that, to say so and send all the surreal beauty of this moment crashing down around him.
But that never happened.
So he gave you a faint teasing smile and said, "Pick me up at eight."
// masterlist // send me your thoughts // comments & reblogs appreciated! //
a/n | don't mind me, just thinking of all the ways the Winter's Dream dance could go (+ making cupcakes with Jonathan). ugh.
There was something about love that you just couldnβt quite seem to grasp.
In fact you were starting to give up on the whole notion of it entirely.
Perhaps that was a bit dramatic but it was true. You were certain that by now you wouldβve found the one.
Instead, youβve found worse.
The best you can call them are lessons learned, because boy have you learned your lesson. With each relationship you have, a part of your lover girl soul seems to chip away, each one leaving you with something new to take into your next.
With your first boyfriend, James, who you dated your sophomore year of high school, you learned how to be less sensitive.Β
It was during that famous fall, when the entire town was holding its breath, scouring the woods for Will Byers. Youβd cried yourself to sleep. He was just a kid, a quiet boy in your brotherβs grade, and the thought of him lost, cold, and scared made your chest ache with a visceral, suffocating dread.
James had found your tears irritating. βWhy are you so upset?β heβd asked, baffled. βYou didnβt even know him like that. Itβs not that deep.β
Itβs not that deep.Β
The words somehow became a mantra. James beat the idea into you so much you believed it. Itβs not that deep. Not worth the emotions.Β
You learned to swallow the lump in your throat when you saw Joyce Byersβ frantic eyes on the news, to school your features into something neutral when the search parties gathered.
You stopped being so sensitive. You made yourself smaller, quieter, less feeling. By the time Will was found, miraculously alive, the part of you that cried for near-strangers had been neatly packed away.
You hadnβt realized that in doing so, the phrase had started to apply to other aspects of your life as well. Like the part of you that cared for James. So you ended it. Your relationship was never that deep anyways.
Then came Mark, junior year.Β
The best way you could describe Mark was that he wasβ¦ a lot. He wanted passion, fire, drama. He wanted you to scream and fight and make up. All that exciting, borderline toxic stuff that made relationships feel real. But youβd forgotten how. Or rather you simply couldnβt be bothered. You were so practiced in calmness and in not making a scene with your emotions, that he called you heartless.
βDonβt you care about me at all?β heβd yell, his face flushed with a feeling you could no longer access. βItβs like youβre not even in this! Youβre so emotionless!β
It wasnβt true. You cared. You just didnβt know how to show it anymore without the fear of being βtoo muchβ clawing at your throat.Β
Youβd excised the sensitivity, and in doing so, youβd seemingly removed your ability to feel outwardly at all. Mark left you for a girl who threw a plate at his head during an argument at lunch. You heard him say she was βpassionate.β
So, for your senior year, you tried to find a middle ground. And you found it in Ben. Ben, with his soft smile and softer hands, who loved films and basketball and knew all the words to your favorite songs. He felt like the one.Β
The love of your life.Β
You carefully, tentatively, began to unpack the boxes youβd sealed inside your heart. You let him in.
And it was the best decision of your life. Ben was the most loving thing youβd ever come close to.
You were sure. For the first time, you knew.
And then you found the lipstick stain on the collar of his shirtβa shimmery pink that was nothing like you would ever wear.Β
The discovery was a physical blow, a nausea that started in your soul and radiated outwards. The confrontation was worse. Apparently it wasnβt a one-time thing. It went on for months. With a freshman.Β
The words βlove of your lifeβ curdled in your mouth, leaving you sick and throwing up for a week straight.
That was the final lesson. The master class in heartbreak. You learned that trust was a foolβs game, and you, it turned out, were the biggest fool of all.
From then on, you swore off guys.Β
You couldnβt give the emotional connection they were looking for anymore and now you had enough trust issues to fill Loverβs Lake.Β
What you could do, you discovered in a blur of cheap beer and lower back tattoos during your first year of community college, was sleep around.Β
It was a phase, a frantic, desperate attempt to feel something without the risk of feeling everything.
And god it was so easy.
It was so easy to slip into someone's bed knowing that they expected nothing of you. That you couldnβt say the wrong thing or even the right thing, which still wouldn't be enough anyways.
It was empty. And lonely. But oh so easy.
And when the phase ended, when you looked at the string of nameless faces and forgotten mornings, you crashed.Β
Hard.
Depressed couldnβt even begin to describe it. It was this suffocating dread and loneliness that encapsulated you whole.
You turned to your friends, the ones in happy, stable relationships. βHow did you know?β youβd ask, your voice thin with a desperation you hated. Your desire to be loved so bad made you physically ill.
Theyβd all give you the same infuriating smile. βYou just know,β your best friend Sarah would say, squeezing her high school sweetheart's hand. βWhen you know, you know, ya know?β
But you didnβt know. You genuinely, honestly, did not know.Β
You knew suspicion. You knew how to build walls and how to perform emotions you no longer felt. You knew the precise weight of betrayal. But you did not know how to know.
Which is why, when Steve Harrington, who just finished scooping your ice cream and handing it to you, asked you out to dinner, you had no real thoughts.Β
It was just another data point in the long, miserable graph of your romantic failures. A blip. Steve Harrington. King Steve. A relic from high school youβd never really known, just observed from a distance.
He was handsome, sure, with his perfectly styled hair and a smile that had probably launched a thousand sighs. But that meant nothing to you anymore.
βDinner?β youβd repeated, scrunching your brow.
βYeah. You know, it could be fun? I pick you up, take you to that new diner downtown. The whole deal.β Heβd grinned, but it wasnβt the cocky, predatory grin you remembered from the halls of Hawkins High. This one was softer, a little lopsided, with a hint of nerves at the edges.
Youβd agreed because it was easier than refusing. Because you were tired. Because maybe, on some deeply buried level, you were a masochist.
But it started to feel different.
The first date wasβ¦ nice. He talked about the kids he babysatβbabysat, a high school legend now a glorified unpaid nannyβwith a fond, almost paternal exasperation. He didnβt try to impress you with old stories of parties and his glory days of ruling Hawkins High. He asked you questions, and he actually listened to the answers.Β
It was unsettling.
But not as unsettling as when he asked you on a second date.Β
When he asked you out on another date, you pretty much had it solidified in your head.Β
This wasnβt real. It was all a dream, and you were going to wake up from it any minute now, because there was simply no possible way that Steve Harrington would be the one to make you question love.
But, nonetheless, it was real.Β
It was all very real and on the third date, he cooked you pasta at his big, empty house. It was slightly overcooked, and the sauce was from a jar, but heβd lit candles and decorated and it was cute.
More than James or Mark or Ben had ever done for you before. Youβd looked at him, bathed in the warm, flickering light, laughing as he almost set a potholder on fire, and you felt itβa tiny, fragile crack in the frost around your heart.
It was terrifying.
You started making an effort, a conscious, deliberate one, to get to the bottom of what it meant to be in love.Β
You had to know before you were in too deep.
So, you observed Steve like a scientist studying a rare, potentially dangerous species. Because thatβs what he was. A very rare male species who was now beginning to make his way to your heart, and that was the most dangerous thing of all.
You cataloged basically all his behaviors. The way he always walked on the street side of the sidewalk. How he remembered you liked extra pickles on your burger. The deep, weary concern in his eyes when he talked about the weird, unexplained things that seemed to follow the kidsβthe same things, you realized with a jolt, that were tied to Will Byersβ disappearance and the Starcourt Mall fire.
But with every thought and theory you had, you were coming up with blanks.
All your previous experiences had not prepared you for this. How to act and feel when everything was going right.
So right, in fact, that Steve had asked you to be his girl just two months after your first date, with a beautiful bouquet of lilies (your favorite) and takeout from your favorite Chinese place, at a cute picnic at the park right around the corner from your house.
You had said yes, and kissed him dizzy, because he was a great kisser and you loved getting to be close to himβ your boyfriend, who you were starting to fall in love with. Whatever that meant.
The word βboyfriendβ echoed in your head for days after, a sweet, terrifying bell you kept ringing just to hear the sound.
Steve Harrington is my boyfriend.
It felt like claiming a shooting star. Beautiful, impossible, and destined to burn out.
Except, it wasnβt burning out.
If anything, it just kept shining brighter and brighter.
He held your hand in public. He brought you a six-pack of your favorite soda just because he saw it at the grocery store. He bought lilies every chance he could. And he kissed you like you were something precious, his hands cupping your face sweetly every time. He never pushed, never demanded, and that both soothed and unnerved you.
What did this mean? Did this mean he was the one? Did you βknowβ now?
Your mind continued to wrack itself for answers you couldnβt find. So you decided to do the next best option.
Go to his place.
Steve wouldnβt mind, right?
He enjoyed your company and most girlfriends occasionally surprise their boyfriends. You hoped he would enjoy this surprise, showing up unannounced. So you head over and stop at the market to pick up a small pizza and cake for the both of you to eat.
You ring his doorbell, anxious, but excited to hopefully get the answers from Steve you needed. No matter what, tonight, you would know.
When he answers, his face breaks into a smile so bright and unguarded it makes your breath catch. Heβs in soft sweatpants and an old Hawkins High tee, his hair damp from a recent shower and delightfully messy.
βHey you! What are you doing here,β he says, his voice warm as he steps back to let you in. The familiar, clean scent of his laundry detergent and shampoo envelops you.
βI come bearing gifts,β you announce, holding up the pizza box and the small cake. βI was hoping we could hang out.β
Steve smiles bigger at that, leaning down to give you a soft kiss that makes your head spin, and taking the pizza and cake from your hands.
βI love that idea.β Steve hums, βHanging out and eating junk food with my girl? Perfect.β
My girl.
The words still sent a little thrill through you, even as you continued to analyze them.
You settle on the couch, the pizza box open between you as he queues up a cheesy, predictable romantic comedy. The house is quiet, save for the movieβs soundtrack and the comfortable sound of chewing. Steveβs arm is slung over the back of the couch, his fingers occasionally playing with the ends of your hair.
Itβs domestic. Itβs easy. Itβs everything youβd once been terrified of.
βNo way,β Steve laughs, pausing the film. βHe thinks showing up at the airport with a boombox is a good idea? He doesnβt even have a ticket! Security would tackle him in two seconds.β
The conversation flows effortlessly from there, jumping from bad movies to good music, from his frustrating day at his new job at the video store, to a funny story about the kids. Youβre laughing, your sides aching, and for a moment, you forget why you came over. Youβre just happy.
Maybe that's a signβ¦
Itβs during a natural lull, as youβre both picking at the last of the chocolate cake, that the topic shifts. Youβre not even sure how it starts, but suddenly youβre talking about high school.
βItβs just weird,β you muse, licking the frosting off your finger. βThinking about who we were then.β
Steve nods, a wry smile on his face. βTell me about it. I think my brain was fully located in my hair back then.β
You laugh, but the opening is there. The question that has been burning in the back of your mind. You take a steadying breath. βSpeaking ofβ¦ I know you were with Nancy back then.β
You almost wince at how it sounds coming out of your mouth. He probably feels like you're interrogating him now.
βYeah, yeah I was.β
You donβt really know how to ease into it anymore, so you just blurt out with a scrunch of your brow. βWere you in love with her?βSteve stiffens a bit and you contemplate making a run for it, but then he relaxes and his smile softens, becoming more thoughtful. He doesnβt seem surprised or mad by the question.
βNancy,β he says simply. βThat wasβ¦ a whole thing. It was intense. She was the first girl I everβ¦ really loved, I think. She was so smart, so driven. I was this dumb kid with a bad boy reputation and she saw right through it. Wanted to fix me, I guess. Or maybe I wanted her to.β
You nodded slowly, taking in the information. He looks down at you then, asking with his eyes if that answer was acceptable enough for you. Probably wondering where this all came from.
You sucked in a deep breath and asked your final question. βHow did you know? Like know know.β
There was a long moment before Steve moved, and you almost thought he hadnβt heard you. But then he reached out brushing a strand of hair from your face, his warm brown eyes searching yours before speaking.
βWell, It was a lot of little things,β he began, his voice a low, thoughtful rumble. βThe way sheβd scrunch her brows when thinking hard about something. How she always loved to be close to me, even if it seemed like she didnβt know why. Or when Iβd surprise her with her favorite flowers and she would smile oh so bright. Sometimes she would even surprise me back.β He paused, his eyes drifting to you. βI knew I was in love when the idea of her being hurt or sad felt like a physical pain in my own chest. When her happiness became more important to me than my own.β
His words settled over you, a rush of emotions you couldnβt explain filling up your body at his words. They were oddly familiar, the things he described, but you couldnβt quite place it.
So instead you just said, βThank you, thank you for sharing that with me.β
He gave a small, understanding nod, his hand coming up to gently squeeze your knee. He didnβt turn the question back on you. He didnβt ask about James, or Mark, or Ben. He just let his truth sit there. You were immensely grateful for that.
But words still felt inadequate. You needed to show him. You needed to kiss the ghost of Nancy Wheeler from his thoughts and replace her with the tangible reality of you, here, now.
Slowly, you shifted, moving the empty pizza box aside. You crawled into his lap, straddling him, your knees sinking into the soft cushions on either side of his hips.
His eyes widened in surprise, then darkened with a warm, tender intensity. His hands came to rest automatically on your waist, steadying you.
You framed his face with your hands, your thumbs stroking the faint stubble along his jaw. You leaned in, capturing his mouth with yours in a deep, searching kiss. A silent communication of thank you and Iβm here and Iβm trying. You poured every ounce of your confused, hopeful, terrified heart into it, kissing away any further questions you might have had.
Steve responded instantly, his arms wrapping around you, pulling you flush against his chest. He kissed you back with a matching fervor, a low groan rumbling in his chest.
He knew deep down that this response was likely because of Nancy. But you were all he could ever think of. All he wanted to think of.
So, he kissed you even harder and vowed, from that moment on, that he would do whatever it takes to make sure that you knew, without a doubt, that he was the one.
βββββββ
It was, albeit, a bit harder than he anticipated.
Steve knows practically everything about you. What you like and donβt like, so finding something that was worthy of such a grand gesture felt impossible. He couldn't just buy you flowers again, or your favorite soda. That was baseline Steve. That was the man who was already, hopelessly, head-over-heels in love with you. He needed to show you the depth of it.
He started small, but with intention.
He noticed you dog-earing the pages of your favorite paperback because youβd lost your bookmark. The next day, a beautiful, handcrafted bookmark with your initials on it was waiting on your nightstand.
Steve heard you mention offhandedly that the draft from your apartment window kept you up at night. That weekend, he showed up with a toolkit and fresh weatherstripping, spending the afternoon meticulously sealing the edges while you watched nearby.
They were never big declarations. They were just⦠evidence. Evidence that you were always on his mind, woven into his everyday life.
The big grand gesture came on a perfectly ordinary Friday. Youβd had a brutal dayβeverything that could go wrong, did. You felt drained, brittle, and the old, familiar urge to retreat, to build the walls back up, was more enticing than ever.
So you did what you always did when you needed to feel better and dragged yourself to his doorstep. Steve didn't ask what was wrong. He just pulled you inside, sat you on the couch, and handed you a mug of tea. Then he disappeared into his bedroom.
He came back out holding a large, flat, rectangular object wrapped in brown paper. It looked⦠handmade.
You knew he was getting a bit more crafty, especially after making that bookmark for you, but this seemed much bigger. You were oddly impressed.
βI, uhβ¦ I made you something,β he said, his voice uncharacteristically shy. He handed it to you.
Puzzled, you tore the paper away. It was a shadow box frame. And inside, arranged with a painstaking, almost artistic care, were dozens of tiny, mundane objects.
Or at least you thought they were until you looked closer and those objects became more familiar.
The ticket stub from your first movie together.
Dried lily petals.
The paper wrapper from your favorite brand of gum.
Polaroid photos of the two of you together.
The pull-tab from the cans of soda heβd brought you that first time.
It was filled to the brim with small meaningful items that you had shared together throughout the course of your relationship. Each item was glued in place, a perfect museum of your relationship. It was the physical manifestation of all those little things heβd noticed, all the memories heβd cherished. At the bottom, in neat, block letters, he had written:
A Collection of Things That Made Me Fall in Love With You.You stared at it, your breath caught in your throat. Your eyes traced over every single item, each one a tiny spark igniting a memory. Your eyes started to well with tears. You hadnβt even known he was making this for you. The thought alone made your heart clench.
Suddenly, your mind drifted back to that night. When you were questioning Steve about how he knew he was in love with Nancy. The familiarity of his description of Nancy finally clicked into place. The scrunched brows, the favorite flowers, the surprises. He wasnβt describing Nancy.
He was describing you. He had been describing you all along.
A sob broke from your lips, but it was a happy cry. One of joy, and understanding, and love. The last of the frost around your heart melting away in the warm, brilliant light of his love.
You looked up at him, tears streaming freely down your face. He was watching you, his expression a mixture of hope and nervousness.
βSteve,β you whispered, your voice trembling but sure.
βYeah, sweetheart?β
You set the box down carefully and stood up. You walked to him, took his face in your hands, and looked directly into his warm, worried eyes and said with complete confidence.
βI love you.β
The words were clear. They were solid. And they were the truest thing you had ever given anyone.
You love Steve Harrington.
You love Steve Harrington.
You have all along. He made you feel wanted, and loved, and beautiful and you loved him so much for it.
Steveβs eyes widened with glee. He searched your face, and this time, he found no hesitation, no shadow of doubt. He found only the clear, certain reflection of his own love staring back at him. He knew that his plan was successful. You knew.
A shuddering breath escaped him, and his own eyes glistened with tears. A slow smile spread across his face, so full of relief and overwhelming joy that it made your heart swell.
βI know,β he choked out, his voice thick with emotion. He pulled you into a crushing hug, burying his face in your hair. βI know you do.β
He held you for a long moment, just breathing you in, before pulling back to look at you. βI love you too. So much. More than anything. More than everything.β
And as he kissed you, deep and sweet and full of a promise that stretched into forever, you finally understood what everyone meant.
You just know.
And now, you did.
βββββββ
author's note: this was so fun to write, i hope you guys liked it. as always, my requests are open, so feel free to send me a request and i'll try my best to get to it. much love <33
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